


Kinktober 2017

by IrLaimsaAraLath



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, BDSM, Begging, Body Worship, Choke Play, Collars, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Discipline, Dom/sub, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Edgeplay, Empathic Bond, Exhibitionism, F/M, Frottage, Hallucinations, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Kinktober 2017, Knifeplay, Leashes, Light Bondage, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Masturbation, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Multi, NSFW, Oral Sex, Pet Play, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Role Reversal, Roleplay, Rough Sex, Scars, Sexual Roleplay, Sibling Incest, Slavery, Smut, Soul Bond, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, bondy bond, dub con because of inebriation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-08 20:19:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12261390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrLaimsaAraLath/pseuds/IrLaimsaAraLath
Summary: October is Kinktober!Let's see how many of these I can manage.





	1. List!

**Author's Note:**

> I'll update tags as I go.

Here's the list for 2017.

  1. ~~Spanking~~ | Sleepy Sex | Aphrodisiacs
  2. Dirty talk | ~~Watersports~~ | ~~Forniphilia (Human Furniture)~~
  3. Public | ~~Biting~~ | ~~Sthenolagnia (Strength/Muscles)~~
  4. ~~Bukakke~~ | ~~Knife Play~~ | Begging
  5. Humiliation | ~~Cuckolding~~ | ~~Body Swap~~
  6. ~~Size Difference~~ | Bondage | Bonds (Telepathic or Empathic
  7. ~~Creampie~~ | Worship (Body, etc) | ~~Cross-dressing~~
  8. ~~Latex~~ | ~~Roleplay~~ | Deep-Throating/Face-Sitting
  9. ~~Asphyxiation~~ | ~~Lingerie~~ | Frottage
  10. Edgeplay | ~~Gun Play~~ | ~~Fucking Machine~~
  11. ~~Sadism/Masochism | Orgasm Denial | Gags~~
  12. Master/Slave | ~~Tentacles~~ | ~~Hand-jobs~~
  13. Medical play | Rimming | Titfucking
  14. ~~Sensory Deprivation~~ | Role Reversal | ~~Incest~~
  15. Sounding | Object Insertion | Lapdances
  16. Waxplay | Pegging | Masks
  17. Blood/Gore | Costume | Massage
  18. Daddy | Leather | Masturbation
  19. Prostitution/Sex Work | Olfactophilia (Scent) | Nipple Play
  20. Pet Play | Feet | Threesome (or more)
  21. Double (Or more) Penetration | Impact Play | Shower/Bath
  22. Glory hole | Collaring | Scars
  23. Shibari | Corset | Against a wall
  24. Exhibitionism/Voyeurism | Fisting | Sixty-nine
  25. Boot worship | Suspension | Smiles/Laughter
  26. Shotgunning | Mirror Sex | Stockings/Tights/Pantyhose
  27. Branding | Temperature Play | Stripping/Striptease
  28. Xenophilia | Tickling | Swallowing
  29. Omorashi | Dacryphilia (Crying) | Overstimulation
  30. Toys | Emeto | Cunnilingus
  31. Any combo of the above




	2. Day 1 - Sleepy Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Married and retired Cullen and Caitlin have some sleepy, drug-influenced sex. 
> 
> And there's rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was born of a prompt from @teiranlavellan of petrichor and the "sleepy sex" of Kinktober Day 1.

With the Inquisition disbanded, and Solas’s scheming left under more willing supervision than hers, Caitlin and Cullen had retired from active duty.  Her inheritance bought them a large tract of land, where they established a working farm that doubled as rehabilitation for former templars.  It was close enough to his sister, Mia, for her comfort, and far enough away to keep Cullen from feeling claustrophobic.  The endeavor also satisfied his desires to aid his former brothers in breaking their addictions to lyrium as he had.  Caitlin found her happiness in his, merely glad to have him to herself, healthy and reasonably safe.

 

Depending on perspective, it was late at night or  _ very _ early in the morning when she woke to a familiar ache in her shoulder.  It radiated to an elbow and wrist that no longer existed, and it only served two purposes:  to ruin her ability to sleep and warn of an approaching storm.  She could see only the vague shadowed outline of Cullen’s body as he slept next to her, sprawled on his stomach, hair wild and shoulders bare.  Careful not to wake him, she slipped from the bed, plucked a slender vial from the bedside table, and approached the window.  A half turn of a curved latch opened the frame, and she pulled the window halves inward.  With her thumb, she prodded the cork from the vial she held and tipped the lip of the glass to hers.  The concoction within was bitter though sweetened, and its numbing effect was immediate as its pain-lulling properties seeped into her blood.

 

Her lids fell half-closed over her violet eyes as she sat the empty vial aside and leaned her elbow against the window sill.  The pain was never wrong.  The moonlight was variable, there then not, as the storm clouds rolled by, and blue-white streaks of lightning speared the earth as the air grew heavy.  Since moving to the farm, she’d discovered that she loved the air just before the rain -- when she could feel the weight of the storm on her skin and could smell the hint of earth stirred as distant rains pelted dusty dirt.  She took in a deep breath of the warm aroma, rich and loamy, and it sent a shiver across her skin.  It was getting closer; she could tell by the cooler breaths of air that swept across her cheeks and the barely-there sound of approaching thunder.  At her back, she heard the bed creak softly, and a glance over her shoulder found Cullen had shifted onto his back.  He still seemed asleep, so she returned her gaze to the rain-hazed point on the horizon that was backlit by lightning.

 

“Mm...Cait?” she heard him mumble after several long, silent moments, and so turned back to her husband.  He had one arm stretched out onto her side of the bed, as if he’d been searching in his sleep, and when she settled down beside him, it reflexively curled around her back.  The heat of the potion burned on her cheeks and in her chest as she watched him sleep, her gaze listlessly drawn first to his lips then lower.  Unlike many such potions for pain that wasn’t pain, the one she used had the effect of a pleasant level of drunkenness.  Not enough to feel sick, not so little that the pain wasn’t dulled, just in the middle where there was warmth and ease and softness.  Nimbly, her fingers traced the line of his neck to his chest, where her touch played over both the defined lines of muscle and scars alike.  He didn’t stir; she watched him carefully to be sure before her hand traveled downward, beckoned by the tapering of his torso.  He was always so warm; everything about him was.  His eyes.  His laugh.  Lips and skin.  Outside, she could hear the beginning whisper of falling rain.

 

Her breath shuddered a bit on the intake, and her thumb stroked over the hollow of his navel as her fingertips dipped into the coarse curls beneath.  Under her hand, he shifted, and a faint sound hummed behind his lips as his fingertips tensed against her back for a moment.  His hair was longer now than it had been when they left the Inquisition, and it fell in heavy curls over his brow and the tips of his ears.  The sun had given the somewhat dark locks a brilliant gilding that nearly matched his eyes.  Just the thought of him with his face turned skyward, cheeks red with exertion and sun, brow and curls damp with sweat made her sigh and coiled low in her belly like a tight spring.  Her fingernails teased the skin beneath the waist of his low-riding smalls, and beneath his closed lids, his eyes danced back and forth as his lips parted.  He would wake soon, she mused, and she leaned in to press a kiss atop his ribs.  She had found his length, half-hard, beneath its linen covering, and taking him in hand, the angle of her grip bunched his smalls against her wrist and nudged them down.  

 

Her eyes were fixed on his face as she worked him, feather-light, with a grip that ghosted up and down his growing arousal.  He swallowed as his head lolled to one side, lashes dark against his cheeks as his eyes fluttered -- almost awake.  “Cait?” he asked again in a voice still dull with sleep, tongue tip sneaking out to moisten his lips.  Stretching up onto her knees, she drew a leg over him and settled astride his hips.  “Yes, love?” she whispered in return, her wrist craning to sweep the head of his cock from bottom to top between her lower lips.  Unfettered by the self-awareness or self-consciousness that might plague him in complete wakefulness, the sound that tumbled from Cullen’s lips was thick and decadent, and it plucked at the center of her heat as surely as his fingers might have.  Now slick with her desire, his cock jumped in her hand as her thumb coasted along the tip, and his eyes peeled open lazily.  She stroked the bud between her folds with his swollen head, moaning her intentions as she waited for his newly-wakened gaze to focus.

 

As soon as she saw the pale glimmer of recognition in his eyes, she adjusted herself and her grip, falling down on his length until their bodies pressed flush.  Her head pitched back with a moan, nearly drowning out his surprised and hoarse cry of  _ Maker! _ as hands rose to clutch at her thighs.  With her fingertips perched on his stomach for balance, she rose slowly on him, only to sink again with a similarly unhurried pace.  Her head swiveled around, chin dipping as she found his eyes; they were fully open now, blown wide and dark and hungry.  The upward cant of her lips was drawn by his hands as they slid beneath loose hem of the tunic she wore --  _ his  _ tunic -- to clutch at the curve of her backside.  His grip quickened her pace, pulling her onto him as he drove upward, and a heavy breath fell from her lips and left them parted on small sounds with each thrust.  “What’s gotten into you?” he managed to ask between grunts, and a lilting trill of laughter left her as her fingers left his stomach.  Trusting herself to the steadying strength of his hands, she reached over her shoulder to grab her tunic by the nape and wriggled her way out of it, eliciting a variety of new sounds from her lover.  

 

She tossed the garment aside as she gripped one of his hands, coyly replying, “Only you,” as she tugged it to her breast and bent his fingers closed around it.  His only reply was a growled groan as he shifted into a sitting position.  The arm he hooked about her waist supported her, and she released his hand to its own devices.  He palmed her breast roughly, squeezing and pressing the mound upward as he bowed his head to take the peak in his mouth.  Her breath was a raspy hitch in her throat as his tongue rolled over the pebbled bud with a rapid tempo, each flick sending urgent sparks through her body that caused her cunt to flutter on his length.  The sound of his moans muffled on her skin made her already light head dizzy, and she clutched at the back of his neck as she rolled her hips into him with growing fervor.  Worrying her nipple with his teeth until she was trembling against him, Cullen only then moved on, lips and tongue tasting their way to her neck.  The pressure of his mouth on her pulse, sucking, lapping at her heartbeat coaxed his name from her lips as her head fell back.  Warmth prickled across her skin and ran through her blood, and she was overtaken by the sudden sensation of floating.  Her eyes became unfocused as she lost herself in rhythm of his movement inside her; she tried to keep up, but her pace became erratic.  Digging her fingers into his scalp at the nape of his neck, she pressed her mouth against his ear.  “Harder,” she gasped, pulling his lobe through her teeth before moaning.  “Fuck me harder.”

 

The only reply she heard was his groan before his wide hands gripped her backside, holding her against him as he turned their bodies, one uninterrupted maneuver that had her on her back and him perched above her.  One hand clawed into her hair as the other gripped the foot board of the bed, and he jerked his hips into her.  Her body bowed away from the bed to meet him, arm struggling to keep a grip on the sweat-slicked skin of his shoulder.  The hand in her hair pulled her head to the side, giving him full access to her throat, where his mouth fell ravenously.  Her head reclined against curve of the mattress, tipping her gaze back until she was peering eyes half-closed through the window.  Through her fuzzy vision, she saw the grey haze of rain outside, heard its soft pitter-patter, which was in distinct contrast to the creaking of the bed frame every time Cullen used its leverage to drive into her.  She saw a flash of lightning and counted -- one one-thousand, two one-thousand -- and then heard the raucous crash of thunder that boomed, but failed to drown out his panting against her ear.  “Cullen,” she moaned as she pawed at his shoulder, his neck, finally catching his jaw to pull his face to hers.  Her mumbled pleas of  _ more _ and  _ harder _ and  _ faster _ were lost beneath his mouth and on his tongue.  With a hand beneath her knee, he hitched her leg higher, pressing it into his hip as he exploited the position to tilt his body so that each thrust stroked her clit on the downward fall.

 

She dissolved into a collection of sighs and moans as the heat in her belly tightened, lowered, and throbbed.  All desperate breaths and biting nails, she rode the climb of her peak as he pounded it out of her until her vision expanded impossibly, and she went rigid beneath him.  Her throat constricted on her voice as her cunt clenched on his length, and when the momentary freeze melted, she screamed his name and bucked wildly against him.  The heavy weight of his hands on her hips held her in place as he plowed through the last quivering waves of her climax before finding his own.  His face was buried in the hollow of her neck when he spilled inside her, his wordless shout short as it was soon muffled in her flesh as he bit into her shoulder.  The pain pulled another cry from her, and he rocked the sound into silence as his thrusts slowed and eventually stilled altogether.  His mouth was kissing away the offense of his teeth on her shoulder, occasionally rocking into her with residual waves of pleasure, as her hand relinquished its hold on him to rake her hair away from her face.  It was still raining, and she could better hear the drum of it on the roof.  However, it seemed as though the bulk of the storm had passed.  A flash of lightning lit the window, and she counted -- one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four…


	3. Day 2 & 3 - Dirty Talk and Public

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Caitlin get a little out of hand on the balcony of their room at the Winter Palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected work got me behind on my Kinktober list, so this is a combination of day 2 (dirty talk) and day 3 (public) AND a prompt of “quit staring! they’ll notice us!" from @4vrafangirl.

“It was exceptionally kind of the Empress to insist on upgrading our accommodations,” Caitlin called out as she stepped from the bath and briskly scrubbed her long red hair with the towel.  After the evening’s events, she had been a mess of sweat and blood.  Sadly, so sadly, the red wool garb she’d worn was irrevocably ruined.  More’s the pity.  “Though, I suppose we did save her life,” she commented, patting her arms and legs dry once her hair was no longer dripping.  Still hearing no response from Cullen, she craned her head out of the washroom and found him standing on the balcony, just where she’d left him before her bath.  Lips pursed and brows furrowed, she wrapped the towel around herself and strode into the room.  She meant to find out what was so entrancing about a balcony view of a garden that it held his attention over her.  Naked and wet.

He was standing with one hand braced on the railing, his dress jacket clasped in the other, with his body canted at an angle.  On silent feet, she crossed the plush carpeting and stepped out onto the balcony, twining her arms around him as she pressed into his back.  “What has you so enthralled?”  Cullen was so soundly startled that he dropped his jacket and nearly knocked her over in his haste to turn around.  “What?  No, nothing,” he stammered as he gripped her upper arms and tried to walk her back toward the room.  “We should go in.  You’ll catch a chill,” he rushed to explain, and as the light fell across his face, she could see his cheeks were flame red.  “What in the world, Commander?” she teased as she struggled in his arms, trying to break free to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that had made him blush so.  “Caitlin, don’t,” he snapped in a hush as she broke his hold and bounded over to the railing.

Her violet gaze skipped across the tall hedges and fountains, benches and gilded statuary, and only paused when she came to the heart of a maze wrought of carefully trained vines and trellises.  At the center, supported by the bent knees of a statue of the Blessed Bride herself as she knelt, was a couple snogging in earnest.  A wicked cackle bubbled up on her lips before Cullen’s heavy hand clamped down on her mouth, effectively silencing her.  “They’re going to notice us if you’re not quiet,” he said against her ear, and when she nodded, he loosened his grip to let her turn around.  The bow of her mouth was twisted prettily into a devilish grin, and her bright eyes were narrowed with amusement.  “ _Us_?  Ser Rutherford, I do believe it was _you_ who was staring _so_ lasciviously but a moment ago,” she accused, and the red on his cheeks sank lower until the color had drained into his collar as well.  “You’re lucky they didn’t see _you_!”  His hand rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck as he turned his eyes elsewhere, away from Caitlin and away from the snogging to absolutely anywhere else.

“No, I-, well, I _did_ , but I-,” he stumbled over the words, and she folded her arms, murmuring a loud _mmhmm_ as she waited for his explanation.  “I was just,” he said, gesturing at where she stood, then continued, “and they just,” while waving his free hand absently in the general direction of the couple, all the while pointedly not looking in that direction.  “Oh,” she huffed out, “I see.  That explains _everything_!”  She couldn’t help the laughter that escaped her when he turned a helpless expression down at her, obviously flustered, and then tossed both hands into the air.  “They were just there.  I didn’t mean to…well…stare,” he offered, somewhat meekly as she reached up to the open collar of his shirt and tugged him toward her.  “I’m sure,” she said, one hand easing beneath his shirt collar as the other fell to his waist.  “We really should go in,” he managed to say with a decent amount of sincerity as he kept his eyes trained tightly on hers.  “We should,” she agreed, nodding as she kneaded at his shoulder, then let her other hand trail down the front placket of his pants.  The breath he sucked in caused his nostrils to flare, and his head dipped as she roughed her knuckles along his swollen length beneath the fabric.

“But, on the other hand, you really _do_ seem to be enjoying the view,” she reasoned coyly, pressing the flat of her palm to the bulge before catching her lower lip between her teeth as her touch stroked lower.  The sound he made rumbled at the back of his throat as he leaned into her hand and pinned her between his arms as he gripped the railing.  “We _can’t_ , Cait,” he whispered hoarsely, and her response of, “Yes, we can,” came as she slowly sank to her knees at his feet.  For a second time that night, surprise caught Cullen’s voice in his throat and widened his eyes as he watched her work over the laces of his pants with her nimble fingers.  “Maker’s breath,” he muttered to himself as she peeled back the placket and freed his length.  He was still staring down at her when she took him in hand, pumping once, twice, before she tilted her eyes up to him.  

“Don’t watch me.  Watch them,” she instructed, and he hissed out a breath when she stroked her thumb along the underside of his cock.  “You’re _not_ serious,” he hushed out, still not quite able to lift his eyes from her.  “Oh,” she began, lifting the tail of his shirt to place a kiss just beneath his navel, “I am _very_ serious, Commander.  Eyes front and forward.”  If it was possible for toes to blush, his did, along with everything in between them and his hotly burning ears. “What if someone sees _you_?” he asked, making one last attempt to preserve her modesty and his bruised sense of morality.   With her back braced against the iron railing and her knees bent and cushioned by his discarded jacket, she quirked a brow.  Languidly, she brushed her nose into the curls at the base of his shaft and nuzzled her cheek against his length.  “The prospect of getting caught is half the fun.”  And, with that, her lips parted to allow her tongue out, a taste that swiped across and beneath to flick the slit.  

His hands were white-knuckled on the railing, and he bit down on his moan of resignation as he tilted his eyes up and out to the spectacle in the garden.  Under her hand, the muscle of his thigh tensed.  “What are they doing now?” she inquired, drawing his length toward his stomach in order to lave her tongue up the underside.  With his head tilted back and eyes closed, he offered a silent plea to the Maker for forgiveness in advance of his continued sinful transgressions, though impatient with his lack of a response, Caitlin gave him a rough tug.  “Cullen?”  With a grunt, he abandoned his repentant efforts and muttered, “Maker, woman.  Give me a moment.”  She hummed her acceptance and placed an open mouth kiss on his head, teasing the tip of her tongue rhythmically along the crown.  Swallowing past the thickness in his throat, he settled his eyes on the couple once more.  It wasn’t that he was a saintly choir boy, but having his cock sucked while watching another couple…amorously engaged…was new territory to him.  

“He, ah,” and his voice broke when she nudged his pants lower to take his sac in hand.  “Her bodice is o-open…off.  Hand up her skirt,” he managed to utter with minimal quivering as she rolled his balls gently in her hand.  She murmured a wordless acknowledgement as she craned her head to lap at the crease between the base of his cock and his sac.  He made a breathless, strangled sound that expanded into a throaty gasp as she drew one tender orb into her mouth, then the other.  Relinquishing his hold on the railing for the first time, he gathered her hair up into one hand and pulled it gently away from her face.  His breaths left him in slow, husky rushes, chased by tiny groans that crept from his throat.  Watching the movements of her throat and jaw, the way her cheeks hollowed just so, he couldn’t resist touching her face.  Under his fingertips, her muscles shifted subtly as she tongued him, while her fist, so much smaller than his own, pumped up and down his length.  

“Maker, you’re beautiful,” he confessed abruptly between breaths, caressing her cheek with a calloused hand.  The hum of her voice tickled through his sac, and the sensation pulled a deep croak from him before her mouth was replaced by her hand.  “I’m glad that you think so,” she said, slightly breathless, as she wiped delicately at her chin and the corners of her mouth.  “But you’re not supposed to be watching me,” she scolded, tilting her eyes through the railing to the garden.  With a gentle grip still on her hair, he turned her to meet his gaze.  “I am _far_ more interested in what’s happening on this balcony.”  The chuckle that left her was velvety, and she mumbled a quiet, “Good answer,” before sliding his head between her lips.  Bracing his free hand on the railing, he let the other ride the easy rise and fall of her head, holding only tight enough to keep her hair from obscuring his view.  

Amber eyes took in the sight of her, plump lips stretched and moistened on his width.  Her cheeks caved shallowly with each pull back.  She would linger at the head, wind her silken tongue about him before descending once more.  He was certain he could never tire of watching her do this.  As she rose and fell unhurriedly, lavishing her warm attentions on his cock, one hand snaked beneath his shirt.  Her fingertips were light, but scalding, and her nails scraped across his ribs, making the flesh beneath quiver and his inhale sharp through clenched teeth.  Her grip on his side drew him closer, and with a slight adjustment of angle, she swallowed him down until he met resistance at the back of her throat.  He moaned, a delicious sound, and his grip on her hair was no longer gentle.  Holding her in place, he rocked into her the slightest bit, just enough to feel the grind and to hear her struggle on him, before he guided her off.  

Keeping his grip on her hair taut, he drew back enough to be out of reach of her lips.  As she strained forward unsuccessfully, a corner of his mouth rose, and her eyes narrowed playfully at the challenge.  Flattening her hands to his thighs, she eased downward until his pants bunched on her wrists and she had them at his ankles.  Letting her lips fall open and tongue curl out to lap at him, he gave her just enough slack brush the tip and taste the bead of fluid gathered there before yanking her away again.  The sudden tug strangled her whine, and he tilted her head back to force her gaze to his.  “Tell me what you want.”  She lazily licked her lips before asking, “You expect me to _beg_ for the privilege of having your cock in my mouth, Commander?”  The clucking of her tongue was followed by a soft _tsk tsk_.  “I think you will if you want to finish what you started,” he said, his earlier bashfulness buried now under the heady rush of having her on her knees.  

“What _I_ started?” she began, canting her eyes as she scraped her nails along his hips.  He hissed.  “I am certain that it is _you_ who are to blame for this encounter,” she coo’d, lifting a hand to settle on the one he still had tangled in her hair.  She massaged his wrist for a moment before relaxing her head into the support of his hand as she drew her fingers over her cheek and trailed them down her neck.  “I also think you vastly overestimate your influence in this situation.”  He swallowed, but smirked no less until her thumb hooked into the front of her towel, edges tucked closed over her chest.  “You can’t-,” he managed to get out before she gave the towel a tug, unbinding the ends to let it fall away from her body.  Utterly nude on the iron-railed balcony, she pressed her feet together so that she could spread her legs.  “ _Caitlin_ …someone will see,” he said in a hush that devolved into slack-jawed silence when she spread her legs and pressed two fingers into her mouth.  

Her expression made it clear that she could care less who might see, and her fingers emerged from her lips and trailed along the valley between her breasts.  He could no longer recall what he’d been so concerned about only moments before.  “I’m sure _someone_ will beg, but it won’t be me, Ser Rutherford,” she said in a voice that dripped honey.  Her fingertips lingered over the stiff peak of one breast, and she rolled it firmly, mouth falling open on a soft sigh.  Dancing in the air in front of her, his cock jumped at the sound, and he palmed roughly over his length without thought.  It was her turn to smirk, and she teased her hand lower, grazing the soft plain of her stomach before lifting her hips into her touch when it settled on the crest of her mound.  

“Do you yield?” she inquired, free hand cradling her breast from beneath, with the continuous upward slant of her hips causing her entire body to rise in shallow waves against her hands.  She let a moan drop from her lips, heavy and sweet like a rich wine, as she pushed back against the hand that held her hair.  His fingers splayed, sinking into the riotous mass of her tousled red hair, gripping at her scalp but not yet pushing.  She noted it when the tip of his tongue slipped over his lips, but when he remained silent, she gave him a nonchalant shrug, mumbled a “ _Very well, Commander_ ,” and pressed her fingers between her lower lips.  She hummed her pleasure as she stroked deeper, and his voice echoed like distant thunder in his chest.  

“That doesn’t seem fair,” he accused, but when she tested the resolve of his grip on her hair, he continued to hold her just out of reach.  “Does it not?” she retorted as she parted her folds with two fingers and stroked her clit with the third, making a display of herself for him.  She sucked in a quick breath through her nose and moaned in earnest, still pinching and teasing her breast.  She let her eyes flutter closed as her body undulated, rocking against and past one hand and into the other.  “Do you see how wet I am for you?” she purred, languidly changing up her stroke, falling further and deeper as she pressed two fingertips inside.  “I’d rather come with you in my mouth, buried in my throat,” she said, almost wistfully, as the fingers slid in to the second joint.  Her mouth fell open on a hitching breath as her hips bucked.  “But,” she said breathily, “it seems that you’re going to persist-.”  Her words were interrupted by a moan as she buried her fingers to the knuckle in her heat, then sucked her bottom lip between her teeth to quiet herself.  A few quick breaths, and she finished her sentence, “-persist in being stubborn.”

Opening her eyes, she was met with the intensity of his gaze, amber eyes darkened to deep gold as he stroked himself, palm down on his head.  Digging her fingers forcefully into her breast, she withdrew her hand from between her legs and lifted it. Purposefully passing the slickened digits through his line of sight, she parted her lips, painted them with her own arousal, then plunged them into her mouth.  Her cheeks hollowed as she suckled on the pair, and his fingers tensed in her hair.  The final nail in his coffin came when she pulled them free with a *pop* and laved her tongue around each one in turn.  “Fuck, Cait,” Cullen groaned as he tugged her closer, but met only her closed lips.  He swept the broad head of his cock over her lips, and she rewarded him with a lithe slip of her tongue that was there and gone again.  A low growl rumbled in his chest as his other hand sank into her hair, pulling her forward until he could thrust his length against her cheek.  “ _Cait_ ,” he said, voice strained as the slick beading on his head smeared across her cheek.

“Tell me what you want,” she said, turning his words back on him.  Tilting her head up as he leaned down, he licked at her closed lips, tasting her before he pressed his voice against her ear.  “I want to fuck your pretty mouth, then watch you lick my seed off my cock.”  That said, he straightened, and a smug smile spread across her lips as she settled her hands on his hips and drew him closer.  Running her tongue along the underside of his cock, she lapped at the tip, circling before she sank down on him.  His hands immediately became fists in her hair, and he forced her further down on his length, a swivel of his hips grinding against the back of her throat.  Only when she began to gag did he pull her back, allowing her a ragged breath, before shoving her down again.  Using her hair, he set the pace, and it was punishing, though not unexpected.  He’d allowed her to tease him for longer than she’d expected, so his ravenous need was not unprovoked.  

She straightened her neck to better accommodate his length, and a deeper thrust tore a ragged moan from his lips.  It sounded like her name.  With one hand anchored firmly on the curve of his ass, she reached between his legs to gather his sac into her palm. Rolling and tugging gently, she slid a finger up the back.  There was a slight hesitation in his thrusting, but she continued until her fingertip found smooth skin.  Both of Cullen’s hands clenched in her hair, and his grip faltered, as if he meant to pull her away, but when she nudged against his perineum, his breath caught in his throat.  With a light, but thorough touch, she massaged that hidden spot as she tugged on his sac, and the pitch of his moans dropped an octave.  

Beneath her hand, his balls drew tight, and he grew rigid on her tongue.  She moaned her contentment around him, and the vibration sent sparks up his spine and down to his toes, and a desperate, breathless groan left him as he snapped out a hand to grip the railing.  His other shifted to clutch at the crown of her head, pulling and pushing as he pumped into her, his rhythm erratic and stuttering.  Kneading against his perineum with a gentle fingertip, she hollowed her cheeks on him, and the combination summoned moaned praises from his lips.  No longer capable of keeping pace with his wild thrusting, she relaxed the muscles in her neck and let his guiding hand do the work.  She felt it when his body seized, and he croaked out a broken, “ _Oh, fuck, yes_!” as he came undone.  Abandoning her ministrations, she gripped his ass with both hands and took several more deep pulls before she tasted the first pulse of his release.   

The force of his orgasm made his knees tremble and erased all thought of thrusting from his mind as he rode out each wave between her lips.  With a combination of hands and lips and tongue, she guided him through his climax, the muscles in her throat working to swallow around him.  When his head fell forward and his gaze settled dazedly on her, she pulled her mouth off him and pumped him a few more times in her fist, allowing the last of his spend to trickle down his length.  She ducked her head and flattened her tongue to the base of his shaft before licking to the tip, gathering the seed on her tongue, swallowing, and repeating.  His breath shuddered when she lapped the last of it from his head, then licked her lips before sitting back on her heels.  “ _Sweet Andraste_ , Caitlin.  What did you do?”  She was disheveled, but appeared supremely pleased with herself as she wiped at her mouth with the heel of her hand.  

“Just something Dorian suggested,” she quipped, leaning forward to scoop his softening length back into her mouth with her tongue.  The sound that left him was neither a gasp nor a moan, and his body trembled as she rolled him on her tongue and drew back with suckling kisses to the tip.  He was still breathing hard when she grasped the waist of his pants and rocked back onto her feet.  Standing, she worked his pants up over his legs until she was left with her arms about his waist.  “Cait,” he breathed, and she worked her hands beneath his shirt to grip at the small of his back.  “Hm?” she hummed in return.  “You’re still naked,” he whispered, pressing his mouth into her hair.  He could feel her smile on his skin when she traced her lips up his neck to his ear.  “I know.  What’re you going to do about that, Commander?”  Calloused hands drifted over her skin, coasting down her arms to her hips then around to cup her backside.  “All manner of _wicked_ things, Lady Trevelyan,” he rumbled into her ear before quickly scooping his hands beneath her thighs and hefting her up and over his shoulder.  

The sound of her laugh was rich and just a bit too loud.  “Shhh,” Cullen shushed as his broad hand snapped out to slap her ass.  She yelped and cursed him as a brute, but was still laughing too hard to be indignant as he carried her inside.  


	4. Day 4 & 5 - Begging and Humiliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. I had this idea while back. A master/slave AU with Solas, my Lavellan, and Abelas, with some pet play type stuff. I decided I didn't have the balls to do it.
> 
> Then Kinktober happened, and I started it. 
> 
> Depending on the reaction, I may or may not continue it. I also may or may not already be in hiding out of fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just going to slap the note on this that I put when I posted on Tumblr.
> 
> PREFACE: As much as I enjoying a nice BDSM fic, I’ve never attempted to write one, and depending on how this goes over, I may never attempt it again. Granted, this doesn’t go very far (there’s more begging and less humiliation). But all the same, I am endeavoring to handle the subject matter as respectfully and accurately (?) as possible. So, that said, if in this piece, I’ve committed any grave errors or faux pas, pleeeeeeease let me know, either in a comment or a message or an ask. I’ll fix it or take it down entirely. If it’s not terrible, I’ll probably continue past Kinktober. I mentioned a while back about wanting to do this sort of thing with Solas and Lavellan and Abelas, and I just can’t get the image of Abelas with a tawny fur tail and a gilded wolf head mask and nooooothing else out of my head. So. I digress. @kinktober2017, days 4 and 5.
> 
> Be gentle with me. It’s my first time.
> 
> Tagged for: slave/master, begging, humiliation, collaring, leashing, pet play (or prelude to pet play), non-con threats, discipline, nsfw

A low hum of conversation vibrated in the air, white noise beneath the sharp clinking of glasses and mirthful chords of laughter.   He'd drunk his fill of the golden champagne and browsed more than a few of the gallery’s displays.  While perfectly lovely, none of them piqued his interest.  It was becoming more and more difficult to find something that did these days.  He accepted the invitations sent to him more out of gracious obligation than any real expectation of discovering anything of note.  The hostess of the evening was seated at the head of the room, and he intended to demonstrate his thanks before taking his leave.  So as not to seem utterly disinterested, he paused at the occasional exhibit; while none were grand enough to take home, there were a few pieces that had exemplary qualities.  Elegant lines, well-sculpted forms, beauty in all shapes and sizes.  He could appreciate at least that much.

 

From across the room, he locked eyes with the gallery’s curator and started in her direction.  They’d known each other for many years, and it had been quite some time since he’d seen her.  Perhaps tonight wasn’t a complete waste after all.  Long, even strides brought him across the marble floor, and she extended a hand to him before he was in reach.  She waited patiently, and when he reached her, he dutifully took it into his own and pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles.  “Mythal, I had not expected to see you here.”   The ancient elf smiled wryly as she spoke, “I cannot tell if you think my presence a boon or a bane, Solas.”  Crinkling with mirth, his eyes cast downward as he inclined his head to her subtly and said, “A boon, as always.”  Gesturing around, his grey-blue eyes parted from hers for a handful of moments.  “These are yours, then?  I should have known.  They are all exquisite.”  His companion gave an incredulous scoff before hooking her arm in his.  “Of course they are, and yet, I notice that you have not chosen one for yourself,” she turned an almost accusatory glance at him.  One broad shoulder lifted in a shrug in response.  “You know how finicky I am,” he said as he turned an apologetic half-smile to her.  She only chuckled as she patted his arm and began to lead them away from the grand room.

 

“I may have just the thing for you,  _ Da’lath’in _ ,” she offered as she guided him through the side halls of the grand estate.  His curiosity was piqued as, perhaps better than any other, she knew his mind as well as his desires.  The further they walked, the dimmer the sounds of the main hall became until he could hear nothing but the guttering of the oil lamps and the scurrying of servants.  “And, where is this ‘thing’?” he asked, gaze trained forward with a sort of disinterested nonchalance.  “Presently, it’s in the stables.  It isn’t the sort of thing you’d bring into a party such as this.”  A slender brow arched above one grey-blue eye, and he glanced at her now.  When he spoke, it was with a dubious tone in his voice, “If it’s a halla,  _ Ghi’lan _ , I can assure you that I have no need of another.  My own stables are quite full.”  There was a quality to her laugh that was both delighting and dangerous -- dark like chocolate, but as coarse as the scraping of gravel over itself.  “Mm, it is not a halla, but you can certainly ride it, if you care to,” she said with a cunning smile as servants on each side of the double doors bowed and opened the way outside.

 

A curl of Mythal’s fingers beckoned flames to life in the oil lanterns lining the interior stalls of the stables, and she strode still arm and arm with Solas toward the far end of the row.  “It is quite a bit different than what you are accustomed to, but I think this could prove challenging for you,” she said, unhooking her arm from his as she reached for a lantern.  Her words evoked a feeling like that of a mother trying to convince a child that its bitter-tasting medicine will be good for it.  Behind one of the stall doors, a halla snorted and snuffled softly, and he reached over the gate to stroke its snout as he watched his companion unlatch the last gate on the right.  Swinging the door wide, she motioned Solas closer before she strode into the stall.  Following after, he stood in the opening and scanned the interior.  He had had no well-defined expectations of what Mythal had in store for him, but somehow, this leashed creature kneeling in the straw before him wasn’t among even the most vague.  “Sit straight,  _ girem’lan _ .  You have a visitor,” the elder woman said, and with a flick of her wrist, a slender reed crop appeared in her hand.  

 

Two sharp taps to the back of the slave’s left thigh improved her posture greatly, drawing the line of her back straight, shoulders level, and head bowed.  The elven woman’s hair was long and white, pulled into a thick, but fraying ponytail at the nape of her neck.  Feathery strands fell over her face and fanned across her shoulders, and she wore only three things:  a wide green leather collar embossed with glyphs, the broken remnants of a delicate silver chain harness that concealed nothing but enhanced everything, and a muzzle that matched the collar.  Her hands were bound behind her back.  He was intrigued, but not sold.  Stepping further into the stall, he circled to her left, inspecting her with sharp eyes beneath a furrowed brow.  “Why is she not inside with the others?” he inquired as he passed behind the post to which she was chained and around to the other side.  “Because she made a spectacle of herself on the journey here, and it seemed such a waste of time and effort to simply throw her overboard and into the sea,” Mythal said, her tone sighing with annoyance on every word.  

 

“And the muzzle?” he asked.  “She bites, and if she is going to act like a bitch, I am going to kennel her like one,” his companion was quick to answer as she strode to stand in front of her slave.  Bending at the waist, the elder woman gripped the young elf’s chin and lifted it, her darkly lacquered nails pressing into soft skin.  “If you do not want her, perhaps I can breed her,” Mythal commented idly as she tilted the woman's face up and turned it from side to side.  The woman’s eyes never left the ground.  “She's pretty enough, and that  _ might _ at least recoup some of my losses.”  Mythal straightened and stepped close enough to scrape the pointed toe of her boot along the inside of the woman's thigh before working it into the apex to nudge at her sex.  “Or perhaps I can sell her to one of the Imperium’s chattel houses.  Mayhap their savagery is what it will take to tame this one,” the elder suggested, twisting her foot to grind her toe into the woman.  Though she made no sound, the slave’s shoulders lurched with the desperate quickening of her breath, and her eyes fluttered wildly.  “At any rate, I cannot send her back.  Her people do not want her.  They were compensated for her, and I imagine the cold comfort of the coin is preferable to her presence.  In any case, I am done wasting time on her.”  His eyes passed to Mythal.  Those were rare words for the elder; she was never one to squander a profit, and she was even less likely to admit defeat.  “She was sent to you, then?  Why?” he queried as he drew closer and focused his attention again.  

 

From the hitching post to the collar, he drew a fingertip along the leash and traced the line of her neck as he crouched at her side.  She was fit enough, pleasing to the eye.  Her skin was only a few shades warmer than her hair, and pale freckles dappled the curve of her shoulder and what he could see of her cheeks.  “It seems she lacks control.  Of herself, of her magic.  There was an incident and not everyone survived.”  Faintly, his brows lifted at Mythal’s answer, and he slid a warm palm down the young woman’s upper arm, giving it an appraising squeeze, before tracing fingers across her collarbone.  “This was the penance she chose to pay for her actions.  She would be taught discipline and her people would be paid for her service, but it seems she is not so willing as she suggested.”  Over her unblemished skin, Solas’s touch wandered, eventually settling atop the slope of her breast.  A bit bottom heavy, but her areolas were a pleasing rosy hue and pebbled readily under the manipulation of his thumb.  He thoughtfully tested their weight in his hand as he tilted a glance up at Mythal.  “And you think  _ I _ can do better with such a creature?”  

 

Her laugh came again as it had earlier, and she teased the tip of her crop across his arm.  “Humility doesn’t suit you.  We both know you have a deeper interest in the arcane and a more patient nature.”  The corners of his mouth turned down in a noncommittal expression, and he drew idle figures on the skin of her ribs as he spoke.  “Yes, point taken,” he returned, and under his fingers, the young woman quivered.  “She is very responsive, is she not?”  Slipping over her side to her back, his hand sank until he could palm her ass.  He wasn’t overly gentle about it.  “You have no idea,” his companion retorted, a smug smile on her lips.  “Shall we see what she says about this?” Solas ventured, taking the young elf’s chin in hand to gently tilt her face up and over to him.  She kept her eyes averted downward, but was pliable enough.  “Tell me,  _ girem’lan _ , shall I take you home with me or leave you here to your fate?”  His words were even, if not soft, and his fingers perched lightly on her skin.  She neither moved nor answered.  Mythal made a noise rife with intolerance, “I never have understood why you ask.  She was born as she is.  She knows her place, and she accepts it.  Why can’t you?”  

 

Solas never looked away from the young elf as he answered Mythal.  “I am proof that the nature of one’s birth need not dictate one’s destiny.  I would have thought you of all people would understand that.”  The elder hummed a sound that seemed too similar to the buzzing of an angry hornet’s nest.  Solas gave the woman’s chin a nudge.  “Look at me,  _ girem’lan _ , and answer my question.”  Only slowly did the woman’s gaze drift upward to his, and it lingered there but for a moment before her eyes darted to Mythal.  Clearly annoyed, the elder took a step forward, “Do not look at me, girl.  Look at him.  Do as you are told for once,” and with those words, she snapped her wrist to whack the crop against the back of the young woman’s thigh.  Instead, Solas’s forearm caught the blow, and he turned a chastising eye up to Mythal.  “If she is the bitch you say, she should look the part, should she not?  I am certain the lady of the manor will have the appropriate items.”  The elder’s thin lips curled back just enough to show her teeth before she headed through the stall’s gate.  Solas called after her, “White wolf fur, if she has it.”

 

With Mythal gone, Solas looked back at the young woman only to find her staring wide-eyed at him.  He noticed for the first time that her eyes were viridian in hue, deep and rich, the blue-green of lost lagoons.  Her gaze darted fitfully back and forth between his face and the arm he’d used to block the blow meant for her before she suddenly seemed to remember herself and dropped her face.  When she did, she bent as far as her leash would allow and pressed her forehead against the hand that rested on his knee.  “Is that a yes?” he asked as he lifted her face, then stood and unshackled her from the post.  “If that is a yes, convince me that you deserve it,” he commanded, his voice low and firm, but without malice.  Never raising her face, she shuffled slowly over to him on her knees.  Her balance was a bit awkward at first, but she quickly recovered it, and when she reached him, she fell prostrate before him, rubbing the sides of her muzzle and her cheeks against his boots.  Her hands were still bound at the small of her back, but she rutted against him as best she could, and he realized the sounds he heard were her whimpering with the effort.  

 

A light touch on her head stopped her, and he hooked a finger beneath the side strap of her muzzle to pull her face up.  “I can trust you not to bite me, yes?” he inquired, and she inclined her head in response.  Beneath his fingers, the buckles at the back of her head came undone, and he eased the leather casing from her face.  The corners of her full mouth were red from the bit inside the muzzle, and she worked her jaw soundlessly as she attempted to alleviate the tension in her jaw.  With his thumb and the heel of his hand, he wiped away the saliva that had dripped from her lower lip and collected on her chin and clean his palm off on the thigh of his leggings.  She kept her eyes obediently down all the while, and as soon as he stood back from her, she bent forward, face hovering mere inches above the ground.  “You should know, my methods differ somewhat from your Mistress’s, but I am just as demanding.  I require that you give me no less than everything,” he said, striding around to the front of the stall.  Without rising, she shuffled to follow his movements, keeping her head always at his toes.  

 

“You will be expected to submit absolutely.  Your magic will be mine, your mind,” he continued to explain, observing her reactions closely, before concluding, “and your body.  All will be for and at my pleasure.  Is that what you want?”  She lifted her face enough to place a lingering kiss atop each of his boots before she lowered her forehead to the ground.  “Speak,  _ girem’lan. _  I want to hear you say it.”  The line of her back bowed with the depth of her breath, and her weight shifted from knee to knee.  Her first effort to speak produced only a hoarse syllable or two, and she cleared her throat before trying again.  “Please...please don't let her sell me-,” and she paused, a trembling breath stirring the straw beneath her face before she finished, “- to Tevinter.  I would...very much prefer to be yours.”  A twist of his ankle brought the toe of his boot beneath her chin, and he nudged it upward.  “Why?  Do you think yourself too high for such a position?  Too good to be used like a common  _ whore _ ?”  She simply let her chin rest on his toes, but every word he spoke crawled deeper and deeper beneath that beautifully ivory skin of hers, until the inflection on the last made the muscles between her shoulders bunch.  Her eyes didn’t make it as far as his, but she snatched her chin into the air and quickly answered, “Yes.”  

 

As soon as she’d said it, she went rigid, her defiant posture locked in place by what must have been stark fear.  The tension in the lines of her body voiced her expectation to be hit, but instead, he laughed.  It was not a bemused or half-hearted chuckle, but rather a full, deep-chested laugh borne of genuine amusement.  “Ah,  _ da’mis _ , I see now why your Mistress has difficulty with you.  That tongue is quick.  I wager it is sharp as well.”  As he watched, a measure of the tension slipped away, and the knotted muscles between her shoulders smoothed.  “For you, it would be slow and soft,” she said quietly, lips brushing over the boot toe that had held her chin.  And, just so simply, he was convinced.  She wouldn’t have heard the sharp intake of his breath nor seen the way he rolled his shoulders to mask the light shiver that ran down his spine.  She would only know that the mirth was gone from his voice as he commanded, “Sit,” then waited for her to right herself before he crouched down in front of her, bracing his forearm against one knee.  A fingertip beneath her chin lifted it, and only when she could no longer avoid it, she met his gaze.  A rosy hue suffused her cheeks, alighting on her chin and crossing the bridge of her nose, though her eyes were unwavering.  One corner of his mouth lifted as he said, “I may one day give you the privilege of demonstrating,  _ da’mis _ .”  

 

It was only when her eyes strayed over his shoulder that he became aware of the woman standing just over the threshold of the stall.  She held a velvet satchel between her fidgeting hands, and he motioned her closer.  Blushing furiously, she seemed frozen in place and unable to take her eyes off of the elf tethered to the post.  Solas cleared his throat, and the woman’s eyes spun to him so quickly, he expected she would have a crick in her neck in the morning.  “M-my Mistress hopes these are to your liking,” she said shakily as she hurried over and offered out the satchel.  “Mm.  I am certain they will be sufficient.  You know Mythal, girl?”  The young woman bobbed her head, and he plucked a gold coin from his pocket and pressed it into her palm.  “Find her and tell her that Solas accepts her generous offer.  Keep this for your troubles.”  As big as saucers, the woman’s eyes blinked a few times before she nodded enthusiastically and excused herself.  Sitting the satchel on the ground between them, he deftly unknotted the drawstring and fished inside.  His fingers brushed soft fur, then cool metal, and he withdrew the tail with a purposeful lack of haste.  Long and plush, the tail was made of white, silken fur hazed with a sheen of silver.  He pulled the length between his fingers, savoring the sensation before he turned his attention back to the young elf.

 

“You know what this is?” he asked, stretching the tail’s length between his hands.  Affixed to one end was silverite phallus, moderately slender and gracefully curved.  The elf only nodded her head, eyes fixed to the silverite.  “And, have you ever worn one before?”  He stood as he asked, scooping up the satchel as he strode behind her.  Around her shoulders, her hair shivered as she shook her head, and as he withdrew the small blade from the sheath on his belt, he said, “I cannot hear you.”  The cant of her head told him she was fighting the urge to look over her shoulder, but to her credit, she said only, “No, I have only seen others.”  He hummed his acknowledgement as carefully slid the blade of his dagger beneath the bindings on her wrists and sliced through.  A grateful sigh tied up with a moan of relief spilled from her lips, and he allowed her but a moment to massage at the tender skin of her wrists before issuing his order.  “On all fours, if you please.”  There was the slightest hesitation in her response, but she assumed the position as requested, stretching the long line of her back into a gentle arch to offer her ass up to him.  She flinched under his hand as his fingers drew across the small of her back, and he made a short tsking sound.  “We will have to work on that,” he murmured as his touch followed the curve of her body, over her hip and down to cup her ass.  “This is your last chance to change your mind.  Are you certain you do not wish to reconsider?”  Without prompting, she lowered her upper body down onto the support of her forearms and pressed her forehead into the straw as she more fully presented her ass to him.  No further words were required, and he made every effort not to sound eager when he said, “As you wish.”


	5. Day 6 - Bondage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of days 4 & 5.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagged for master/slave, pet play, anal play, fingering, bondage, humiliation, suggested impending non-con, nsfw.

The warmth of his fingertips on the cool skin of her lower back made her breath catch in her throat, and she flinched.  Immediately, her muscles tensed; her Mistress always took offense to such things, and so she waited.  Waited for the blow that never came.  Instead, his gentle scolding was the extent of her punishment, and relief flooded her and unbound the tension coiled in her muscles.  Emerging from the dip of her back, his touch coasted over the rise of her hip and down the curve of her buttock.  --  Unlike many of her Mistress’s slaves, she was not thin and overly petite as many elves were.  Rather, the swell of her hips was generous and led to thighs sculpted from years of climbing among rocky outcroppings in search of rare lichens and mosses.  Her shoulders weren't broad, but they were lithely muscled, as was her back.  --  “This is your last chance to change your mind.  Are you certain you do not wish to reconsider?” he asked, and she was surprised by her own lack of hesitation.  

 

With her weight supported by her forearms, she laid her forehead against the straw and tilted her hips up and back to more fully present herself.  There was something in the nature of his silence that briefly made her fearful that she’d done the wrong thing, but his voice and the tenderness of his touch on her hip told her otherwise.  She was grateful then that her face was hidden as this manner of shame was one she’d not encountered often enough to take the sting out of it.  Her cheeks burned, and she was certain her skin pinked more deeply with each passing moment.  “Tell me,” he began, and she heard a soft rustling, then a  _ pop _ like a cork from a champagne bottle before he continued, “Have you been taken here before?”  Before she could properly respond, a warm, slick pressure drew down the cleft of her ass.  A small sound formed on her lips, and she pressed it into the back of her hand to muffle it.  When she was capable of doing so without whimpering, she answered meekly, “Mistress has had me...filled before.”  The pressure fell lower, circling the tight ring of muscle, and her fingers curled around a clump of straw.

 

Memories rose unbidden in her mind of the first time she’d been touched there.  Her Mistress had offered the privilege to one of her more beloved slaves as a reward for his proficiency in his training; he would be the one to dole out punishment rather than receive it.  What particular offense brought her to him she could no longer recall.  There had been so many, and they bled the one into the other, along with all of the other times she’d been punished for no other reason than it simply pleased her Mistress to do so.  She was to be bound and filled, completely, and suspended above the dais in the receiving chamber so that all new arrivals might be cowed by her predicament.  He had been too rough, too quick, and the recollection of the pain was still sharp enough to bring the sting of tears to her eyes.  When she heard Solas’s quiet “ _ shhh _ ” behind her and felt the caress of his free hand along the slope of her back, she realized that she was genuinely shaking.

 

“ Relax ,” he encouraged, one hand bestowing comforting strokes across her hip and down the back of her thigh, while the other circled her puckered opening.  “It will make it ever so much more pleasant.”  She attempted to focus on the easy cadence of his voice and to make herself soft beneath his hand.  Slowly, so slowly, between his patient ministrations and the soothing quality of his voice, her rigid muscles began to go lax.  “Ah, there we are.  You are such a good girl.”  Unused to praise, it stirred in her a sudden desire to please, and under his tender workings, she strove to do just that.  Her hips swayed almost imperceptibly from side to side as she eased back against his hand.  His approval rumbled in his chest, and she felt a renewed trickle of oil across her skin.  “I will not move, merely hold it for you.  You must do all the work. Do you understand?”  Taking a steadying breath, she sat a little higher on her forearms so that she could hang her head.  “I understand, Master,” came her quiet answer, and in response, she felt a cold, stiff press against her opening.  The sensation pulled a small noise from her lips, and she clamped her mouth down over it.  

 

True to his word, he did not push or press, merely held, all the while stroking a warm hand over her hip and down her outer thigh.  Dragging her lower lip between her teeth, she eased back until she felt her body tightly resist the intrusion, then moved forward again.  Repeating the process, she gradually worked the tip past the tight ring of muscles and held there.  “Very good, my darling,” he praised as his hand molded to the curve of her ass then trailed lower to slide between her thighs.  “Go slowly,” he urged, and she did, pressing back and forward and again, bit by bit.   The sting was mild, and once it was more quiet, she began to rock onto the silverite phallus with more effort.  It was a conscious act of will to keep her body loose, and as every new inch of her channel was breached, her frightened whimpers turned into muffled moans trapped behind lips pressed tight. 

 

“Do not hide.  Let me hear you,” he said, and the fingers between her thighs slid across the slit at her apex.  The nagging that had moments ago been a familiar smolder in her sex blossomed when his fingers fell with the folds to stroke at the bundle of nerves hidden there.  So long neglected, the touch broke heat across her skin, and she thrust her hips against his hand only to rock back with an unintentional force that seated the silverite fully inside her.  Her head fell back as she cried out, the sound both one of relief at the contact as well as a pain that straddled the line of pleasure.  His hand against her clit stilled, withdrew, and she felt a sharp pinch to her inner thigh.  Overly sensitive, she yelped and squirmed, but a hand on her hip held her tightly.  “Since I am new to you yet, and we have not had this conversation, I will withhold punishment this time.  This time, I accept the blame,” he said, his voice never growing any louder than a conversational tone as he stroked the plush tail now firmly fixed in her ass.

 

“But, from this point forward, you do not seek pleasure.  You receive it when I give it or command it.  Is this clear?”  Every pull of his fingers on the tail moved the phallic plug within her, causing muscles to quiver and flex responsively, and it sent little spears of sensation clear through her.  She struggled to remain still and silent, but her quickened breath caused her chest to heave and weak sounds to tug from her throat.  “Y-yes.  I understand.  Forgive me, please, Master.”  When he stood and released the tail, she felt the brush of it against the back of her thighs, the tip tickling her calves, and a shiver shook through her.  Momentarily, she found herself staring at the tips of his boots, and she hesitantly stretched forward to kiss each.  “You are forgiven.  Look up at me,” Willing her breath to calm, she lifted her face, eyes averted at first before eventually settling on his.  A pair of fingers moved to rest beneath her chin, and he smiled faintly at her.  “All of that said, you did very well.  We will, of course, have to find something more suitable, something of your own later, but for now, this will suffice,” he said, stroking a hand over the snarls of her messily bound hair.  “Mm,” he murmured and pressed his thumb to his tongue before scrubbing at a spot on her cheek.  She almost pulled her face from his hand in order to turn away, shamed by her lack of cleanliness, but thought better of it.  “Mythal did you a disservice by leaving you so unkept.  We will remedy that as well.”  

 

Fishing into the satchel, he pulled out a pair of ears that seemed to match the tail, and he tilted her face downward before clipping them into her hair.  The weight of them was reasonably light, but one of the clips was pulling painfully at her scalp.  Her nose wrinkled, and she knew he saw because he immediately adjusted the fit of the pair.  Then he crouched and laid the satchel between his knees.  “Were you trained for a leash?” he asked, and he tapped a finger to her right hand.  She lifted it obediently, and he pulled from the satchel a mitt covered in pristine white fur.  “No, Master.”  When he tucked her hand into the mitt, she could feel that it was padded, and he deftly laced the cuff to midway her forearm.  Repeating the process on her other hand, he gripped the cuffs on each arm to be certain of their fit before took the satchel and stood.  “Let us hope you are a quick learner, then,” he said as he passed out of her view.  

 

She didn’t flinch this time when his hand smoothed over her hip and down the back of her thigh.  “Bend,” he said as he tapped the back of her knee, “I need your calf against your thigh.”  Leaning her weight forward onto her hands, she stretched out her body, lowering her pelvis in order to fold up her legs.  It wasn’t perfect, but he lifted her knee and slid something supple and warm over it that sheathed the front of her thigh and her calf.  She wondered at the purpose of such a thing but for a spare few moments until the binding tightened, drawing her heel nearly to her ass.  A startled grunt escaped her, but she clamped her mouth down over the sound as he moved on to the other leg.  Padding now separated her knees from the straw-covered ground, and she experimentally flexed her calf and felt the binding firm and without give.  A pair of affectionate pats to her rear signaled his rise, and he once again came into view.

 

“Are you in pain?” he inquired as he bent over her briefly, and she felt the links of her chain leash draw across her side as he gathered it up into his hand.  “No, Master,” she offered from beneath her bowed head.  All of these sensations were new, but none expressly painful, and she could only wonder that he had bothered asking at all.  “When we walk, you will follow at my right heel.  Head up, eyes down, back straight,” he explained, and a tug on the tightened measure of her leash urged her head up.  Facing out of the stall, she let her eyes drift to the ground as instructed, and he turned and began to walk.  She followed after him, slow at first, as the sheaths binding her legs made the action of crawling a foreign thing all over again.  And, the plug of her tail created a friction that made her want to clench her knees together.  But, she soon was able to reasonably keep pace to remain at his heel.  As they neared the exit of the stables, he drew to a stop, and she as well, before he turned to her.  

 

“Before we leave, we must pay respect to the lady and lord of the manor, and  _ you _ must thank them for your furs.  You will address them as Lady and Lord, and they may do with you as they so please,” he said, and she swallowed densely at the thought of yet more prodding and probing hands invading her most sacred of spaces.  “Yes, Master.  As it pleases you,” she heard herself say, instead of the myriad other things running through her mind.  “It will please me.  Others may touch you, and you will not resist.  You will endure.  Understood?”  Her breath shuddered out of her parted lips, and she shifted nervously.  “Yes, Master.”  She felt the weight of his hand on her hair, stroking and tickling just behind her ear.  “Stay,” he commanded as he let his hand trail along her back as he drew alongside her.  There, he paused and tapped the leather handle of her leash to her stomach.  “Belly in, back straight,” and she did best to accommodate, but she felt as if doing so hitched her ass higher into the air.  The burn from earlier flared on her cheeks, and she could tell by the tension on the leash the he stood now behind her.  Warm fingers splayed over one buttock, gripping before she was spanked smartly twice.  She caught her breath before it left her as a yelp, and before the sting could fade, she heard him say, “Now.  Let me see how you make that tail sway.”


	6. Day 7 - Roleplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm stealing Roleplay from day 8 and using it for day 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of a DWC prompt blurb that you can find here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11862726/chapters/28107240
> 
> This is Cullen, roleplaying as an Avvar, and my human Inquisitor, Caitlin.
> 
> Tagged for anal fingering, anal sex, maybe some dom/sub/master/slave feels, aaaand, that's all I can think of. My brain is fried.

Her full lips were parted on quickened breaths, and her eyes were still anchored to his, though it seemed to her that their amber hue had darkened a shade or two.  The bashfulness there only moments before was nonexistent, replaced by an intensity that made her stomach twist.  Though his grip on her hair was tight, when she leaned up, he allowed her enough slack to crane her head toward him.  She got close enough to feel his breath on her lips before her tugged her away so that her kiss met only empty air.  The clipped sound that burst from her lips was both a whine and a surprised mewl of pain as his grip held her hair taut from her scalp.  

 

One corner of his mouth slanted upward as he leaned into her, setting his mouth near her ear as he used his hold to tilt her head aside.  His voice was hot on the shell of her ear, and there was gravel in each syllable.  “It will not be that simple to satisfy me,” he chided, scraping his teeth across her lobe before twisting her head to force her gaze to his.  “I've made my way into your stronghold,” he began as he let his hand slip from her hair, “and past your unobservant guard.”  He leaned away from her unhurriedly, depriving her of the pressure of his knee by degrees as he stood.  She ached for the absence, and her writhing betrayed it.  “And, now I will claim you as my own as is my right.”  Taking a full step away from the bed, he curled a beckoning finger in her direction.  Cullen always cut an imposing figure, but with his hair slicked back and pasted to his scalp with clay and his body adorned with streaks of paint that teased the eye, he seemed to her a wilder god.  Her cheeks burned as she stared down her body at him, and a flush rose across every inch of her skin.  When she had yet to move, his canted one way and his hips another, and he lowered his voice until she could feel it vibrate through her at ten paces.  “Don’t make me ask twice,” he said, and the smolder in his voice was mirrored in the amber of his eyes.  It was more than the hunger and lust she was used to seeing.  It was something ravenous.

 

Slower than was necessary, she slid her way to the end of the bed, stepped down from the bench, and moved to stand within arm’s reach of him.  His lowered chin hooded his eyes, and the flickering of the candlelight made them seem to flash beneath the deep shadow of his brow.  “Disrobe,” he commanded, and in the edge of his voice lay a threat she was certain he could make good on.  As she began to work at the knot in the lacing on her bodice, he leaned back against the wall at the edge of the hearth, idly commenting, “I would see what my efforts have bought me.”  Inch by inch, she pulled the satin cords from their eyelets, until the length of them was free to coil on the floor at her feet.  She pushed the strap from one shoulder, then the other, and parted the front placket to reveal a strip of tanned skin beneath.  She paused there, the nightgown barely clinging to the rise of her breasts, revealing only a path to her navel.  

 

“All the way, lass,” Cullen motioned with a finger, and she tugged at the bottom of the thigh length skirt of the gown.  So easily, the fabric lost its grip on her bosom and pooled at her feet.  She stood before him, in only her smalls, with her arms left to hang straight at her sides.  He made no effort to hide the raw lust in his gaze as it raked over her body, and her heart began to beat faster and her breath quickened.  Eventually, his eyes settled upon hers once more, and he said firmly, “Those, too.”  Glancing down, she shifted her weight, and while Cullen had certainly seen her naked before, had his hands on and in the most intimate parts of her, she was suddenly bashful.  It seemed different just standing here on display.  

 

The rise of a single brow was all the prompting she needed, and she pushed her smalls over her hips, down her thighs, and to the floor before stepping out of them.  He rumbled his contentment and roughly gripped the bulge beneath his loincloth.  The sight stirred the warmth tethered low in her body, and she was suddenly very conscious that it had begun to creep lower. “Step back into the firelight,” he directed as he pushed away from the wall.  For every step he took forward, she took two back until she stood full within the glow of the hearth.  The amber light of the flames bronzed her tanned skin, gilded the thatch of curls between her thighs, and played shadows over her breasts.  He drew closer.  “Turn around,” he instructed, and his voice was thicker now, laden with a desire that couldn't be mistaken.   

 

Her eyes crinkled in questioning, a nervous smile, but he simply twisted a finger in the air and mouthed the words again.   Complying in silence, she hugged herself loosely and turned away from him.  When he neared, she felt the heat of his body against her, the paint scratching her bare skin.  It sent a shiver along every nerve and a flutter through her chest, and he chuckled against her ear to see her tremble.  “It may be too late for modesty,” he observed, his lips teasing the skin of her shoulder as he caught her elbows in his palms and urged her to lift her arms.  Guiding them over her head, he directed her to hold them there as he swept the back of his knuckles down the underside, along the outward swell of her breasts, and finally over her ribs.  Ticklish, she bit her lips, restraining a squeal as she squirmed.  Against the curve of her backside, she felt his firm measure and heard his muted groan as she rocked against it.  “Far too late for modesty,” he intoned as his hands settled on her hips before trailing inward.  His fingers splayed just beneath her navel, index and thumbs meeting at the midline of her body before trailing down to brush into the curls at the apex of her legs.

 

One hand slipped further, cupping her sex as he declared against her skin, “This belongs to me now.”  His voice was as dark as distant thunder, and it shook in his chest the way lightning set the ground to trembling when it struck.  Dipping between her lower lips, a fingertip found the bundle of nerves there, and she hushed out a feeble, “My Lord,” as she willed her legs not to shake.  “Say it,” he urged her before settling his lips in the hollow of her shoulder as he plucked at the nub beneath his fingers as a bard might at the strings of a lute.  Her whole body shuddered as the thrum of sensation echoed into her belly and down to her knees.  She whispered in acquiescence, “It belongs to you,” before a breathless gasp tumbled from her lips, and she pressed back against him.  In response, his hips lifted subtly into her, a lazy rhythm that added a touch of gravel to his voice.  His hands began an upward journey then, and from beneath, his hands cradled her breasts, gathering them and teasing both stiff peaks between his thumb and forefingers.   

 

“These,” he paused, tracing the tip of his tongue over her pulse, before finishing, “also mine.”  Leaning into his hands, a breathy moan left her, and she echoed his possession in a single word, “Yours.”   He stifled a growl in the bunched muscles between her shoulder blades, nipping at the skin.  “Bend over,” he rumbled at her, dragging his blunt nails across her breasts as he withdrew his hands.  Her breath caught in her throat, and she turned a hesitant glance back over shoulder at him.  Curling a fist, he pressed his knuckles between her shoulders.  “I said,” he began, pushing slowly but firmly.  “Bend,” he continued as she finally stopped resisting.  “Over,” he finished, smoothing a hand down her spine.  She planted her fists on the floor at the tips of her toes for balance, and he took a step back to admire the sight.  “Sweet Lady, you are a vision,” he uttered as he ran his hands over her buttocks, gripping her hips to steady her as he ground against her curves.  With a gravelly exhale, he forced himself to let go, stepping back to tug the belt from his waist.

 

“Get on your knees,” he ordered, almost breathless, and she made a show of slowly sinking to the floor before resting back on her heels.  Turning her eyes over her shoulder to him, she found him palming his length beneath his loincloth.  Unabashed, he held her gaze, then stepped forward and threaded his fingers into her hair.  He was gentler than before, kneading at her scalp as she tilted her head into his hand.  They lingered this way, staring into each other before he bowed to brush his lips against her.  “Spread your legs,” he urged, whispering against her mouth; it was the first soft thing he'd said, and she did as she was bade.  As he settled between her legs, he let his touch wander up the backs of her calves, and her head lolled to the side as she sighed out her pleasure.  However, when his coarse fingertips ghosted over the inside of her thigh, the hitching of her breath surprised her, and she shuddered.  “Your cunny is quite tempting,” he confessed as he stroked a finger along her folds, unable to suppress the smirk that tugged at his lips when she quivered.  “Especially as wet as you are for me,” he continued, flicking his touch across her swollen clit.  She whined at the brevity of the contact, and he seemed to take pity as he let her sink onto a single finger.  She bucked against his hand, every breath a moan.  “I would prefer to save this delicacy for our wedding night,” he teased, pulling his finger out in a series of shallow strokes.  

 

“In the meantime, I would still have you.  I believe I've earned that much,” he reasoned, drawing the finger wet with her slick up the cleft of her ass until it rested upon the tight pucker of muscle hidden there.  She stiffened, bowing forward with a moan that seemed to blossom from the deep well of her chest.  “You seem to enjoy the prospect.  Do you?” he asked, continuing to stroke the taut ring, occasionally pausing to press lightly against it.  “Yes,” she whispered hoarsely as she braced back into his touch.  “Yes what?” he prompted, and her breath rushed out along with her words.  “Yes, my Lord, please, take me...in whatever way you choose.”   He rumbled his approval as he abruptly gripped her ass and parted her cheeks before dipping his head to lave his tongue over knot of sensitive muscles.  Before she could stop herself, she cried out his name, part from surprise, part from pleasure, and the last syllables ground out in a moan that surprised her with its depth.  The scrape of his stubble and of the paint on his cheeks added layers of sensation as he traced her puckered opening with his tongue, probing lightly before he drew away to plant a wet kiss first on one cheek then the other.  

 

He pulled away then, and still awash in the hot tingle that coiled around her spine and spread wet heat between her legs, she bowed to rest her forehead on the carpet.  Unconsciously, her ass bobbed in the air as she tried to rein in her shallow panting.  Her cheeks were scalding, and she could feel their blush over the whole of her body.  Somewhere behind her, there was shuffling, then a drawer opened and closed.  A soft *whumf* fell near her head, and she felt a breeze on her cheek.  Cutting her eyes aside, she saw the heap of Cullen's loincloth lying nearby. It was only moments later when he settled behind her, spreading her legs a bit wider with his own, and she hear the *pop* of a cork from a bottle.  Eagerly, her hips began to dip and sway, shallowly thrusting at empty air as she rose onto her hands and impatiently waited.  A weighty hand settled on the small of her back, and she could hear the coy tease in his voice when he said, “Don't make me chase it, lass.”  A low bubble of a chuckle fell past her lips, and he slapped a hand down on her ass in warning.  She yelped, but the laughter died as she bit down on her lower lip.  

 

The last traces of her mirth expired with the warm trickle of oil on her skin that came only a fraction of a second before his finger followed.  Down and around the tight knot of muscle he teased the oil, massaging gently as he brushed a hand lightly over her hip.  Behind her closed lips, she hummed her pleasure, directing with the movements of her hips her readiness to go further.  For his part, Cullen pressed lightly, but let her go at her own pace as she backed onto his finger, one shallow thrust at a time.  Deep in her throat, she groaned as she stilled for a moment, adjusting, and his hand on her hip was a constant soothing touch.   Slowly, she began to move again, and he took his cue from her, beginning to gently pump in and out.   Her voice was a constant murmur of pleasured sounds as she rose and fell on his hand until she breathlessly requested, “More.”  Ever obliging, he added another oiled finger to the first, plunging languidly in and out as she stilled, resting her brow on the carpet.  “You are so deliciously tight,” he said to her in a hush, adding, “I can already see you fucking yourself on my cock.”  In response, she ground down onto his fingers, and a moan, like silk over gravel, echoed in his chest as he sat in appreciation of her efforts.  

 

As he slipped in a third finger, he added a subtle twist of his wrist, and it sent her to trembling on his hand.  Pump and twist.  Pump and twist.  He carefully stretched her until she was moaning his name interspersed with a breathy  _ please _ here and there.  His hand left her hip, and there was a lull in his movements, during which she contented herself with a slow rise and fall on his fingers before those disappeared as well.   She wasn’t left wanting long and soon felt the heat of the broad head of his cock against the puckered ring of muscle.  So, so slowly, he nudged against her as she rocked back on him, and he braced a hand on her backside to keep her from rushing.  And she did try, bucking back into him, and he was certain his grip on her would leave bruises with the effort it took to hold her.  She was begging by the time the crown of his head pushed past the first ring of muscle, and the line of her back curled as he groaned.  His head dipped forward as he watched their bodies slide together, his persona slipping as he groaned out a  _ Sweet Maker _ and sat still as she began to slowly fuck herself on his length.  

 

His hands splayed across her hips, a light hold as he simply observed the plump swell of her ass rising and falling on him as he, inch by inch, disappeared inside her.  Beads of sweat rolled down his temples with the effort not to move, allowing her to set the pace, and he swallowed around the moans that began to leave him of their own accord.  Kneading into the flare of flesh below her waist, he groaned a tortured  _ Cait _ , and she answered with the arching of her spine as she drove herself back onto him.  She cried out as he bit out a desperate moan, and his fingers dug into her hips as he abandoned the effort to be still.  In long thrusts, he fell in and out of her, wracked by tremors as he reveled in the slap of his body against hers, her whimpers that left her between each panted breath.  As their pace quickened, he draped his body over hers and slid a hand down the plane of her belly.  Her stomach hollowed beneath his touch as his fingers strayed lower, and when he dipped between her folds to find the swollen nub there, her head fell back with a soundless cry.

 

Snaking an arm around her body, he lifted her against his chest and straightened, nestling his face into her hair as he rocked into her.  When she found her voice again, it tumbled over a litany of praises, wordless noises caught in the interim of pleasure and pain, and cries to the Maker.  He wasn’t sure which pleased him more, though in truth, all that really mattered was the way their bodies fit together.  Her soft curves against his scarred lines, the way she moaned his name that smoothed the edges of every sharp thing that haunted him, how being inside her, with her, next to her made every other thing pale in comparison.  He’d have gladly drowned in the sea of her without ever once thinking to trade her embrace for air.  He told her as much, breathlessly whispering the words into the tousled mane of her red hair, eyes closed as his hands painted her image in his mind.  Rhythmically, he stroked the bundle of nerves hidden between her legs, timing each to fall with upward thrust of his hips.  With his other hand, he mapped the plane of her stomach, fingering the scars that crossed her ribs before trailing higher to cup the ample mound of her breast.  This woman, she was a collection of shapes and textures:  round and straight, smooth and pebbled, maddeningly soft and damningly wet.  

 

As the pitch of her moans stretched ever higher, she reached over her shoulder to clutch at his hair.  The caked on clay cracked beneath her fingers, and she gripped the stiff strands beneath as her body similarly began to clutch on his length.  His name fell broken from her lips, and he nudged higher into her hair to find ear.  A deep rumble that was the last remaining breath of his coherence was growled out when he commanded, “Come for me, Cait.”  Her voice cracked with her compliance, and the already impossible clench of her body became tighter still as she pulled him over the edge with her.  He buried his shout against her shoulder as spent inside her, and the violence of her shuddering passed through her body and into his until he felt as if his grip on her was the only thing keeping either of them grounded.  Slick sounds and panted moans filled the air around them, and their bodies moved in one seamless undulation after another as they rocked through the roiling aftershocks together.  

 

Both were breathless when they finally stilled, and he held her tightly as he gingerly withdrew.  The sound that left her at his exit was low and clipped, and when he released her, she slumped forward onto her hands as she shook off the last tremors that raked through her.  Her next breath was a startled one, as Cullen had produced from some unknown, blessed place a warm cloth and first went about tidying her up, then himself.  Once finished, he went no further, instead collapsing onto his back on the carpet in front of the fireplace.  The flames were lower now, slim fingers of crimson that danced above glowing embers and threw sparks across his eyes.  Still on her hands and knees, she glanced over at him from beneath the hazy red veil of her hair, and when he met her eyes, a crooked smile tugged at the scar on his lip.  He opened his mouth, perhaps to ask her how she enjoyed her Avvar or maybe to offer an endearment.  Whatever it was never became as she took his face in both hands, sank down onto his chest, and kissed him as if her next breath and the one after could only be found on his lips.  

 

He could feel the curve of her smile against his lips, and when she finally pulled away, he fed both hands into her hair, pushing it back, so he could see her.  “Happy?” he asked, head shifting to one side as she nodded.  “Exceedingly.  You?” she returned, and he craned up to press another kiss to her lips.  “Quite.  I’ll be even happier once we’re in the bath, and you’ve finished scrubbing this clay off,” he said, shifting to rub his back against the carpet.  “It’s starting to itch.”  She was laughing when she pressed her forehead to his and he folded his arms around her.


	7. Day 8 - Deep-Throating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skipping over day 7′s prompts (I’ll get back to the worshipping there later) and jumping to day 8′s deep-throating.
> 
> This is some pretty non-con deep-throating that’s a continuation of the last two @kinktober2017 pieces I’ve done. Master Solas, slave Lavellan.
> 
> Tagged for non-con, rape, oral sex, vaginal, pet play, master/slave, public, humiliation, collar/leashing. I think that’s it. Oh, a little magical violence, I guess.
> 
> Putting it all under the cut just because.
> 
> Please proceed with caution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: trigger warning for rape, non-con scenario.

The air in the main hall was warm and full of the sounds of merriment; string music was an undercurrent beneath glasses that tinked together in toasts, under voices that strayed from laughter, to intense pleasure, to torturous pain.  He spared the briefest glance back at the slave on his heel, and he noted with approval the straight line of her back and her downcast eyes.  Others of her kind busied themselves filling glasses and serving foods.  Some with gilded pitchers and trays in their hands, some on their hands and knees with platters expertly balanced on their backs.  Still others were arranged on display just as they had been when he’d arrived:  stretched within fanciful frames or on elevated tables, ankles and wrists shackled, leaving their bodies open to the inspection of the gala attendees.  

 

As the crowd at the edge of the hall parted for him, whispers surged through those gathered, turning eyes and ears in his direction.   _ I thought he no longer took slaves _ , he heard them whisper.   _ Little more than a hypocrite.  I always found it surprising considering _ …  By the time he reached the foot of the dais where the lady and lord of the manor sat, nearly the only sound that remained was the lilting melody of the music and the faintest of whispers.  “My Lady, my Lord, I wanted to thank you both for the evening’s invitation.  It has been a most unexpected pleasure,” he said, indicating the young elf at his heel.  “We are always glad to have you among us, Solas.  And, she is a pretty little thing.  I did not see her among the displays,” the lady mused, standing from her velvet-cushioned throne.

 

“No, madam,” Mythal’s voice called out from behind his shoulder.  “She was not fit for show, much to my displeasure.”  He felt a subtle tug on the leash in his hand as his slave shifted her weight, and the lady of the manor took another step forward.  “Untrained then?” she asked as she addressed Mythal.  Turning his eyes over his shoulder, he gazed at the elder woman, and the expression on her face troubled him.  It was eager.  Too eager.  “No, madam.  Trained, but exceptionally willful and disobedient.”  The lady hummed, saying, “I should very much like to inspect her, since we did not have the opportunity earlier.”  Solas turned back to the dais.  “Of course, and she would like to thank you and my Lord for your generous gifts.”  The Lord rose from his seat and motioned her forward, and Solas bent and unfastened the leash from her collar.  Expectantly, he directed her forward, but she hesitated as if unsure, then began to crawl toward the dais.

 

Coiling the leash into a loop in his hand, he watched her ascend the narrow steps, the sway of her hips causing her tail to whip slowly from one side to the other.  She approached first the lady, and with her nose, nuzzled under the long hem of the woman’s gown to kiss the toes of her slippers.  There were murmurs among the crowd, some short notes of snickering, but he paid little mind as all of his attention was focused on his little  _ feneir _ .  When the lord came to stand beside his wife, the slave crawled forward and stooped to kiss the toes of his boots, while the lady snapped her fingers, and a young courtier rushed to bring out an oversized, padded ottoman.  He had briefly hoped that when the lady mentioned  _ inspecting _ her that it would not be a prolonged affair, but it seemed that would not be the case.  He glanced again at Mythal, who had one arm folded beneath her breasts, with the other elbow propped on it.  Her chin was raised, and when she noticed his gaze, she winked.  She was up to something, and that was never good

 

“Come, girl,” the lady commanded as she patted the plush top of the ottoman, and the young slave looked back to him as if for permission.  It was unfortunate, and he sighed internally as he folded his arms, but gave no outward reaction as the lord plucked up the narrow paddle from his belt and gave her a firm spank.  She yelped, and laughter erupted all around him, as she scurried over to the ottoman to obey.  “I do see what you mean, Mythal,” the lord commented as he came up behind the young elf and ran the edge of his paddle against the red mark left by its strike.  Solas heard the soft whimper of her voice as the lady drew her chin up.  “She has lovely eyes,” she commented before her gaze trickled downward.  “And these lips,” she said quietly, running her thumb across them before pressing past and into the other woman’s mouth.  “They beg to be fucked.”  A tug on his spine pulled his back straighter, and his grip on the leash tightened.  There were no rules, per se, for the inspecting of slaves during gatherings such as these, but they generally avoided such outwardly excessive displays as actual intercourse.  

 

The tension in his shoulders relaxed somewhat when the lady at last moved to the side of the ottoman, hands skimming the slave’s shoulders and the line of her back.  “What do you intend to do with her, Solas?  Make her your bed slave?”  All while keeping his eyes locked on the young elf, he turned his lips up into a mostly convincing smile.  “That had not been my immediate intention, no,” he offered, with a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice as the lord reached beneath her to cruelly twist at her breasts.  He watched the muscles in the elf’s body grow taut, and she bit down on her lips to keep from crying out, but both the audience and the lady and lord were twittering with laughter.  By the time the lady of the manor spoke again, she and her husband had changed positions on the dais; she now stood behind the elf, both hands playing on the curves of her hips, and he stood at her face, smoothing her hair back between her ears with one hand and working the laces of his trousers with another.

 

“Then, surely you wouldn’t mind if we sampled her,” the lord suggested, and without waiting for a reply he pulled himself free of his trousers.  Solas registered the mild flash of panic that ran across the elf’s features, but it was lost as she squinched her eyes closed as the elf lord smoothed the head of his cock across her tightly closed lips.  Solas was clutching so tightly on the leash that the chain bit into his palm, and behind him, several of those in attendance whooped their approval and encouragement, while others with less of a stomach saw themselves out of the crowd.  “Open, sweetling,” the lord said as he gripped her jaws, digging in bruisingly to try to pry her mouth open.  She resisted, issuing little grunts as she turned her head to and fro and tried to back up, only to find her backside pressed into a greedily groping hand.  Pulling up the front of her gown in heaping handfuls, the lady harshly gripped onto the elf’s hip, callously teasing, “That’s right, darling.  Come to me,” as she revealed a sizeable leather phallus that had been hidden amidst her petticoat and affixed to a multi-strapped harness.  

 

With nowhere to go, the young elf seemed to be shrinking inward, and she turned her eyes in a last-hope silent plea to Solas.  He held her gaze long enough for him to feel a painful curl in his gut, then his attention was pulled away by the lady flipping the young elf’s tail onto her back.  “Alright.  I think-,” he began to say as he took a step forward, but the young elf’s cry interrupted him as the lady of the manor grabbed a fist full of her hair and simultaneously plunged the leather phallus into her heat with no preamble.  The young elf’s eyes flashed wide, and when her mouth fell open, the lord took advantage and shoved himself past her lips.  The only sounds that remained were the laughter and applause from the crowd, the elf’s helpless moans, and the squelching noises borne of each thrust.  The lord and lady were still speaking, but he’d ceased listening, and the rest of the noises in the hall were drowned out by the loud buzzing in his ears.  With a fist in her hair, the lord maneuvered the elf’s head to straighten the line of her throat before sinking into her until her nose disappeared against his body.  Solas’s stomach turned as he watched the young elf’s eyes grow distant as the lord ground into her throat, suffocating her until her face was red and her shoulders began to lurch involuntarily.  Before he thought better of it, Solas felt himself moving forward again and heard himself yell, “That’s enough!”  He’d barely put a foot upon the dais’s steps when he felt it.  The air grew heavy, ozone filled his nose, and from beneath the young elf, a brilliant green light flared into life.

 

There was only a moment before the magic erupted outward, and he desperately flung up a barrier, not only protect himself, but those behind him.  It was as if in slow motion that he saw barriers also form around the lord and lady as they were blown back by the force of the explosion that seemed to radiate from the young slave’s body.  The glow was so bright, Solas had to shield his eyes against it and was only able to look again when the light, along with the frightened screams, began to die out.  He saw the young elf sway, then tumble off the ottoman and fall unconscious to the floor.  Dropping his barrier, he rushed to her side, knelt, and rolled her onto her back.  Her eyes were closed, her face pale, and he held his hand against her nose to check to see if she still drew breath.  When he had confirmed that she did, he let his eyes turn up to search for Mythal.  He found her, the only one still standing in the crowd, as opposed to running and scampering, and she had an expression on her face that he couldn’t read.  He could only know for certain one thing by looking at her and that was that she had expected this.

 

While still alive, the lord and lady were unconscious on the dais, and he spared no sympathy for them as he scooped the young elven slave into his arms.  Limp, she rested against him as he strode down the steps, pausing only at Mythal’s side.  “You owe me an explanation,” he said, voice low and dark, as he cut his grey-blue eyes to her.  She nodded, only once, before he stalked past her and departed.


	8. Day 9 - Frottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adapted from a DWC prompt from @ladylike-foxes:
> 
> For DWC (and maybe Kinktober, if you're up for it): Solavellan “Wrong place, wrong time, but I don’t care” kiss.
> 
> So, as requested, here’s some Kinktober Solavellan almost-but-not-smut naughtiness with frottage from Day 9 (with the stockings from Day 26 thrown in).

Some time after the whole business with Alexius and the mages was settled, the Inquisition had been invited to Redcliffe castle as a sort of apology for their initial rough treatment.  Niyera would have been just as pleased to write a "thank you" letter and politely decline, but as usual, Josephine insisted that wasn't enough.  In trade-off, she required that she would be the one to pick her outfit, not the Ambassador, and so a deal was struck.  She'd chosen an ankle-length, split-hem dark blue silk robe with a corseted bodice over a pair of fine-meshed satin stockings in a soft argent hue.  Her hair was piled atop the crown of her head, anchored in place by a collection of silver-tipped pins.  The Ferelden cold be damned.  She was so tired of heavy gowns and petticoats and ugh...

 

The balance of the night they had spent in feasting and discussion, pleasantries and small talk, and in the waning hours of the evening, she excused herself.  Only a few small groups remained; Cullen and Bann Teagan sat near the fire, playing a game of chess, while several nobles looked on.  Meanwhile, Josephine was hard at work negotiating, though to look at the men flocked around her, Niyera was not convinced they were aware that was what was happening.  From a corbeled balcony that ran the perimeter of the grand hall, she looked down on the scene and was glad to at least be literally above it all.  Political wrangling was simply not her forte and trying to force the matter gave her a tremendous headache.  It hadn't helped even remotely that Solas had been displeased at the prospect of making the journey, still sore about the treatment the mages had received.  He, apparently, could afford to hold grudges, whereas she could not.  

 

It had caused something of a spat, and he had declined to join her for dinner, remaining in their room instead.  That just made the night all the more tiring.  She had had enough of socializing, but she was also in no great hurry to deal with the aloof apostate that would be sharing her bed.  Taking a deep breath, she rolled her shoulders back, trying to ease the tension from the knot at the base of her neck, but the effort proved unsuccessful.  Deciding she was better off to just get the unpleasantness out of the way with Solas so she could go to sleep, she turned to go and found herself standing face to face with the brooding apostate himself.  While she didn’t scream, he did scare the breath out of her, and she stared at him with wide, startled eyes as she rested a hand over her rapidly beating heart.

 

“Creators, Solas.  I didn’t hear you,” she said, just a bit breathless with fright.  He only smiled, slowly, as he reached out to curl his forefinger through a tendril of her hair that had fallen away from the rest.  “I apologize.  It was not my intention to surprise you,” he replied, eyes hovering on her face for only a moment more before they panned downward over her body.  Her eyebrows lifted as she stood still, and he reached out to take a fold of her robe between his fingers.  He rubbed them together, as if marveling at the slide of the fabric, before he tilted his gaze back up to hers.  “Is, ah...something wrong?” she questioned, and he took a step forward as his head shook back and forth.  “No, nothing at all.  I simply did not have the opportunity to see you dressed for the evening before you left.”  She hummed a brief acknowledgement and pursed her lips as she smoothed a hand over her bodice.  “Yes, I seem to recall you were in the library by that point.”  He took another step forward, and she could not only feel the heat of his closeness, but also the floral scent of sweet wine.  She quirked an eyebrow as he moved to slide a hand into the opening of her robe, but she stepped back, just out of reach.  “Exactly what have you been up to while I was at dinner?” she asked, leaning her hip back against the edge of the balcony wall.  

 

He spread his hands wide in an aimless gesture as he balanced her retreating step with another of his advance.  “I read.  For a human-curated library, they did have a few interesting tomes.  I was surprised,” he answered, the last of his words drawing off into soft murmur as he stepped into her and settled a hand on her hip.  She didn’t get a chance to inquire any further as a hand on her neck and a thumb beneath her jaw tilted her face up and into his kiss.  It began simply enough, a gentle kiss that found his fingertips stroking the skin beneath her ear.  It was the kind that she could never ignore:  soft, lingering, and as smooth as silk.  So, she didn’t complain when he leaned into her, pressing her back into the balcony’s half-wall.  Or when his hand rose to brush fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck as his tongue slyly slipped past her lips to deepen the kiss.  

 

But, when his hand found its way through the opening of her robe to her hip beneath, she gave a small protest, which he swallowed up by tightening his grip on her neck.  The slow heat of his kiss had flared hotter, and she felt the flames coil in her belly as his hand slid around to grip her backside.  A startled sound passed from her mouth to his, and she flattened a hand to his chest to push against his encroaching weight.  “I don’t think this is the time  _ or _ the place, ma lath,” she said, lips pinked by his kiss.  He wasn’t looking at her eyes as she spoke, but rather at her mouth, and without answer, he bowed his head to run his lips across her pulse, which quickened beneath the touch.  “Solas,” she breathed, the tilt of his body forcing her hand from his chest to his shoulder, where she clung as her head lolled to the side.

 

“Solas,” she said, a bit more urgently, when she felt the tip of his tongue curl along the slope of her ear.  Her grousing became a low moan when his teeth scraped delicate skin, and her fingers sank into his shoulder.  “ _ Solas _ !  What’s gotten into you?” she whispered, the words cut into a strangled breath as his hand on her backside firmly pressed her pelvis into his.  “At least two bottles of wine,” he said in a rush before settling his mouth just on the shell of her ear to ask, “Are these satin stockings?”  The tone of his voice lowered in pitch on the slow cadence of the question, and the vibrations shot straight through her skin and into her flesh to skitter from the tips of her ears to her toes.  She shuddered against him, offering a hesitant, “Yes,” and was answered by a throaty groan against her neck before she felt the pinch of his teeth.

 

Between them, she could feel his hand working at the laces of his leggings, and she leveraged her body forcefully against his to push away from the balcony’s edge.  “We should g-,” she began to say, but only made it halfway through the statement and the room before he caught her again, pulling her against him as he walked her back into a shadowy alcove tucked behind the velvet curtains of the overhang.  Halting her protests before they were voiced, Solas smothered her mouth with his as he pushed her back against the wall, one hand pinning her shoulder while the other fell between them.  With every passing moment, her will to resist was evaporating under the combined heat of his hands and his mouth.  And, when he finally managed to pull himself free of his leggings, and she felt his length slide between her satin-clad thighs, she was entirely finished.  He moaned eagerly into her mouth, tugging her from the wall just long enough to wrap his arms around her waist to lift her higher.  As soon as she had hooked her arms around his neck to hold herself where he wanted her, he drove her back against the wall with his weight and held her there as he thrust up between her thighs.  

 

With his head buried in her shoulder, he rutted against her, and she made a somewhat hazy mental note for the following day:  one, discover the vintage of the wine he’d drunk, and two, invest in more satin stockings.


	9. Day 10 - Edge Play/Knife Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Caitlin, my human Inquisitor. It gets a little rough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagged for edge play, knife play, PTSD, hallucinations, choke play, and rough sex

Half a day earlier, Caitlin had returned from a two week mission in the Exalted Plains, and circumstances had conspired to keep her from Cullen.  It was well after sunset when she'd finally been able to wade out of the throng of diplomats and soldiers and courtiers awaiting reports.   Afterward, she'd gone straight to his office, and she'd barely closed the door and said hello before he had her pinned to it, a broad hand on her chest pushing her back.  He'd taken her right there up against it, both shedding only the minimal amount of clothes required to find the skin on skin contact necessary to slake their thirst.  

 

They'd made it as far as his desk before the tangle of their bodies, all arms and grasping hands, seeking lips, and busy tongues, turned into more.  Stripping each other as they moved, pieces of clothes and parts of armor fell away like autumn leaves until he spun her by her arm to face his desk, and with his hand in her hair, he shoved her down over it.  By the time he kicked her feet apart, she was moaning her need for him, rutting against the edge of his desk in search of pressure that would nudge her aching over the threshold into bliss.  They did, at least, manage to make it to his bed at some point. 

 

And, this is how it went occasionally, when she'd been gone for an extended amount of time, when his lyrium withdrawals had hit him particularly hard and left him without her comfort to round its sharp edges.  He never hurt her, no more than she asked him to, and she did ask, having learned that she loved the feel of his hand on her throat as he hammered into with wild ferocity.  She begged to be taken from behind so that he could bite into the back of her shoulder and scrape his teeth hard enough to leave angry, red-purple bruises for days to come.  

 

She had fallen in love with his gentle heart, the way he held her with such tenderness and how he gazed at her when he didn't realize she was looking.  How they could spend hours in each other's arms, making love with every inch of themselves.  But, she also craved the darkness he so tried to shelter her from, the nights when the pain was so fierce that he just wanted to bury it inside her as if he could drown it in her heat.  The times when he tried to hide his irrational rages, didn't want to let her in, didn't want to see her hurt, didn't want  _ her  _ to see  _ him _ in that way.  Yet she bullied her way in, through, gave him an outlet he needed just as much as she desired to give it to him.  

 

That was why his jostling was so slow to wake her, why his weight settling on her hips didn't pull her eyes open, why her hands pinned above her head didn't alarm her.  It was only the unfamiliar scrape of a sharp edge against her neck that finally caused her gaze to peel open.  She found herself staring up into amber eyes blown wide with fear, lips parted on breaths that came too quickly.  A flicker of her own gaze downward solved the mystery of the unfamiliar sensation against her neck; he had one of her daggers in a reverse grip, blade tilted along his forearm to nudge her chin up with the edge of the keenly honed weapon.  

 

Within her chest, her heart hammered, and she knew he could feel it.  It made the vein in her neck jump it throbbed so fiercely, and it felt like her skin pulsed in time with it.  He licked his lips, not out of any attempt at seduction, but because his rapid breaths had dried them.  She should have been frightened, but she wasn't.  Instead, heat pooled between her legs, and she ached to have him between her thighs rather than straddling them.  “Cullen,” she said slowly, gently, as she as she turned her gaze up from the blade to him.  “Love-,” and an increase in the strength of his grip on her wrists silenced her.  “I am not your  _ love _ , demon,” he sneered at her, his nose barely an inch from hers.  Scalding heat cascaded off his body, and sweat beaded along his hairline.  “How dare you use her face.   Did you think I wouldn't be able to tell?”  The hand holding the dagger trembled, the edge scuffing her skin.  “You are  _ nothing _ like her.”  

 

He adjusted his weight, settling more heavily upon her, and she took a moment to collect her thoughts.  He could be talked out of these fugue states, but this exact situation called for a bit more caution than usual.  She sucked in a breath and swallowed hard.  “How am I different?” she managed to ask, eyes locked on his as she shifted subtly up against him.  His lids fluttered, and he hissed out a breath.   “She's not a  _ whore _ ,” he spat the words at her, eyes jumping fitfully over her face.  The venom in the final word sent a spiral of heat through her stomach, and she pressed her legs closer together.  “Don't think you're going to seduce me,” he said, breathing heavier as his eyes strayed to her mouth.  She tilted her head back into his pillow, stretching the line of her neck up against the blade, forcing him to ease up to avoid cutting her.  “Are you certain you don't want me to try?” she whispered in a low voice, raising her hips into him again.

 

He growled so deeply in his chest that it vibrated from his body to hers, and she gave a breathy moan when he pushed the dagger back up against her throat.  “Stop!”  His lips pulled back from his teeth in a silent snarl as he shoved her wrists harder against the bed.  “Stop talking with her voice,” he snapped, giving his head an unsteady shake before focusing his eyes on her again.  She was beginning to lose feeling in her fingertips and wiggled them feebly.  “This is the only voice I have, Commander,” she insisted, bending her wrists painfully to barely brush his hand.  As if her touch scorched him, he snatched his hand away from her wrists, then grabbed a fistful of her crimson hair instead.  The intensity of the sensation pulled a broken cry from her, and she struggled to clamp her lips shut over it.  “Don't touch me...and that is  _ not _ my title.  I am Knight-Commander,” he insisted, and the first crack in his hallucination appeared.  

 

Her teeth sat on edge for a moment at the grip he had on her hair before she set her fingers, as light as butterflies, on the back of the hand that held the dagger.   Beneath her ribs, her heart beat no less wildly now, and a fine sheen of sweat had broken out on her skin.  “No, love.  You  _ used _ to be, but now you are Commander of the Inquisition’s armies... _ my _ armies.”  His brow furrowed, shadowing his eyes, but he didn't flinch away her her touch.  His pupils shrank a measure, and he hauled in an unsteady breath.  “No, I'm still in Kirkwall...still in the Gallows,” he said, his tone less sure than the words he spoke.  Around the dagger’s hilt, his fingers adjusted their grip, and his attention seemed particularly drawn to where the blade met her skin.  “No, Cullen, you’re not.  Look,” she suggested, gesturing reservedly out to the room with her free hand.  When he frowned at her, obviously expecting duplicity, she slowly laid her arms back over her head against the bed.  “I won't move.  I promise,” she assured him, clasping a hand on her other wrist.

 

The stretch of her arms raised her breasts against him, and he shuddered as he snapped his head sharply to the side as if to physically cast off the sensation.  Fresh anger sparked in his eyes, and he bared his teeth at her again before chancing a brief glance to each side of the room.  To himself, he muttered, “Not the Gallows,” and begrudgingly turned his gaze back to her.  With her hands held open in a placating gesture, she began to raise an arm and move it toward him.  His eyes followed it as if it were a snake, and he flinched when she settled her hand on his shoulder, glaring as if he expected that her touch should burn.  “It's alright, Cullen.  You're safe,” she offered in a low, soothing voice, and when he turned his eyes back to her, they were a little clearer.   In response, she eased her fingers to his neck, trailing a touch against his earlobe.  “Do you see me now?” she asked, threading her fingers into his hair.   His breath shook out of him, and he tightened all over as his gaze dropped to the dagger.  She felt the lurch of his breath in his body as his eyes shot up to hers.  “Caitlin?” was his question, encompassing his hope that the nightmare had faded, his fear that it hadn't, and his hand trembled on the dagger.  “It's me, Cullen.  It's me,” she breathed as she tugged him down, and he bent low enough to brush his nose to hers.  

 

So close, she could only watch as his eyes flashed wider and dreadful realization settled painfully in them.  He tried to yank back from her, but her hand on the back of his head held him tight.  “Damn it... _ Maker _ ...Cait,” his voice was anguished as he spoke, and he struggled for only a moment before he was subdued by her touch.  “Did I hurt you?”   Her thumb traced over his ear, and she whispered, “No, Cullen, no.  You didn't.”   He pulled back enough to stare down at the dagger in his hand and anger flared in him.  It made the veins in his temples stand out and sent a flush to tint his golden skin.  She knew the look well; he wasn't angry at her, he was angry at himself.  And she...she wasn't angry at all.  She accepted this part of him, as she had accepted all the others.  So, when he tried to pull the dagger away, she closed her hand on his to prevent it, and he stiffened, shifting the heat of his gaze to her.  His eyes asked what she was doing, and she turned the blade in his hand until it pointed toward her toes, then slowly began to draw his hand downward.  

 

The tip glided harmlessly over the skin of her chest so light was the touch, but when the linen of her sleeping gown caught on the edge, it was sheared in twain.  The line of Cullen's brow creased more deeply with each inch of the dagger’s descent, and when she felt he understood her desire, she relinquished her hold on his hand.  Hard amber eyes, molten with lust and anger and a hint of fear, found hers as he curled his fingers into place around her throat.  She raised her chin and observed in silence as he leaned back, teasing the dagger through the valley between her breasts until the cloth was splayed open to her stomach.   He was barely breathing when he deftly reversed his grip on the dagger, then stroked its edge across the curve of her partially exposed breast, using the tip to nudge away the fabric.  All the while, her hand rested on his forearm, and she felt the cording of his muscles with every move he made.

 

She swallowed, the effort concerted beneath his grip, and exhaled the shiver that ran the length of her body from her toes up.  “Why,” he began as he forced his thigh between hers, “do you enjoy this so?”  There was no judgment in his tone, no condemnation, just trepidation and a dark sense of wonder.  He had told her before, in the moments that he was entirely himself, that he couldn’t fathom why she endured his  _ episodes _ so graciously, why she willingly put herself in his path to serve as a buffer between him and the rest of the world.  He’d been nearly inconsolable the first few times he’d returned to himself in the midst of fucking her for all she was worth, a hand yanking at her hair or wrapped tightly on her throat.  The first time, it’d taken an hour to calm him down; he’d said when the fog cleared, all he heard were her screams and all he could see was his hands on her, and he feared the worst.  He still asked, from time to time, when he hovered on the edge of the lyrium knife he always walked.  Times like this one.  Roughly, he snugged his knee against her sex, and it had to be  _ very  _ evident just how much she  _ was _ enjoying his attentions.  Her breath croaked out as he ground his knee into her, and she couldn't control the wanton moan that escaped when she was given the friction she so desperately craved.   

 

Having received no answer, he slid the flat of the blade over the guiding line of his index finger as it laid against her throat.  He tilted the dagger until its edge whispered against her jaw.  She trembled, inside and out, and when his brow lifted, she finally answered, “I don't know…”  A noise deep in his chest acknowledged her words, and he released her throat to press his palm over her collarbone.  Groping, he worked his way over her skin until he found the torn edge of her nightgown.  The dagger never moved from her throat as he suddenly gripped the cloth and yanked, ripping it off and down one shoulder.  She yelped at the burn of the fabric pulled taut on her neck, but the sound bottomed out into a groan as he palmed her breast, wide fingers bruising with their grip.  Scraping her bottom lip between her teeth, she closed her hand over his, encouraging, as a whimper in the shape of his name fell from her lips.  She was silenced by the cut of his eyes to hers, and he canted his body to work his hand between them.  His fingers bit into her skin, crawling beneath her thigh to open her legs wide enough for him to settle between them.

 

The lower hem of her gown bunched on his wrist as he pawed his way beneath to press a blunt thumb to the crotch of her smalls.  She writhed against his hand, and he pressed harder as he observed her reaction.  “Mm,” he rumbled, nimbly thumbing the cloth aside to swipe a finger between her lower lips.  The slick slide was more than she could stand, and her hands fisted in the pillow beneath her head as she groaned and lurched downward, seeking more of his touch.  The edge of the dagger’s blade nipped at her skin, and she realized even as he said, “Uh uh, you're going to cut yourself.”  She uttered a breathless whine as she struggled to stay still, and he smoothed a finger through her folds before sinking it into her to the knuckle.   She gasped his name and burrowed her backside deeper into the mattress as he leaned up to rest his weight on his elbow.  Languidly, he pumped his finger in and out, adding another as she squirmed beneath him.  

 

Gripping his arm with both hands, she was silently mouthing his name with little more than the rasp of her breath as her hips lifted in shallow thrusts against his hand.  “You may not know why, but if you enjoyed this any more, you'd come without me having to touch you,” he said, his voice drawing out the words as he leaned over the dagger to dip his tongue between her lips, which were parted on desperate little pants.  Seizing the opportunity, she closed her mouth on his tongue and sucked  _ hard _ , and it had the effect she’d hoped.  A resounding growl echoed through his chest, and in a fit of pique, he threw away the dagger before gripping her chin in his hand, holding her still as devoured her breathlessness.  Between her legs, he added a third finger, and she bucked against him and mewled out a whimper beneath his mouth.  Her hands were everywhere:  his face, cupping his jaw, his shoulders to his chest, where she clawed into the sculpted muscle and it drug from him a moan that found his teeth pinching her bottom lip.  Nipping and sliding, his teeth grazed her jawline to her neck, and he rasped hoarsely into her ear, “ _ Maker _ , Cait.  I need to be inside you.”  All but clawing at his shoulders, she hooked a leg over his hip, pulling as she bucked into him.  

 

“If you need it, take it,” she ordered, challenged, and suddenly his hands were tearing her gown open to the waist.  Sinking beneath the ruined linen, his fingers splayed against her ribs, crushing her beneath his weight as he rose over her, mouth falling ravenously to her skin.  He was all lips and teeth as he sought the tender flesh from the hollow of her throat to her breast as if he were a man ruined by famine.  With a hand tangled in his damp curls, she offered him the feast of her body, and he did not deny her.  Each departure of his lips left a bruise in its wake, and the chill air teased a dull ache from every one.  She was only distantly aware of the tear at the seams of her smalls or of the fact that his never made it to his knees before he surged upon her and at last buried himself inside her.  Her back arched as she keened, head thrown back with the force of the blaze that threatened to consume her from the inside out.  

 

With an arm beneath her waist, his hand gripping her hip, Cullen hid his face against her throat as he clutched at the back of her shoulder.   She hooked her ankles around him, and at that moment, it would have been impossible for them to get any closer.  It took only a few deep strokes for their bodies to fall seamlessly in time with the other.  He breathed in, she breathed out.  She lifted her hips, and he met her and rode her back down.  Push and pull, the moon and the ocean.  It was a constant, immutable rhythm that they had.  She gave when he needed, and he was the shelter she sought in the storm.  Though wordless, his voice was a constant vibration on her skin, sinking through muscle and into her bones to bury itself deep.  In return, she gave him her pleasure; every moan he coaxed from her lips was his name, and she chanted it like a prayer.  Breathless and reverent.

  
Using the leverage of his grip on her shoulder, he adjusted his position, ensuring that every downward thrust hit the spot that made white flare behind her eyes and stole her breath.  Soundlessly, her lips fell open, and the heat smoldering low in her body expanded all at once into an inferno that drove her past reckoning, and she snapped like a piece of fraying twine.  Her nails bit into his shoulders as her rhythm became wild beneath him, and her untamed pace drove him over the edge as well.  His body bowed with the force of his climax, head thrown back with a roar as he spilled into her with each erratic thrust.  As she’d told him,  _ if you need it, take it _ , and she  _ did _ need it and so took it.  Her body molded to his, drawing him out, cradling him as the raging died down to a manageable ember, and though she couldn’t see it in his eyes, she knew his anger was spent.  She raked a gentle hand through his sweat-dampened curls, whispered against his ear every bit of the love she had for him, and held him against her within the circle of her arms and legs.  He was still rocking into her, lazily and without thought, when he rested his forehead against her shoulder again.  Still moving inside her when she felt his breath on the shell of her ear.  “I love you, Cait,” he whispered to her, and she held him a little tighter when she said, “I love you, too.”


	10. To Get From Here to There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of Chapter 7 so that I can moooove that story along to some of the other Kinktober days. A means to an end, my friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing sexy here at all. Just boring story.

Throughout the entire carriage ride to his estate, the young elven slave hadn't stirred once.  While still breathing, it was slow and shallow, and Solas had feared that she might die in his arms.  He could only imagine what the tremendous surge of magical energy had done to her, and he was troubled deeper still by how she might have acquired such power.  Unraveling that mystery would have to wait, however.  Through message crystal, he'd contacted Abelas who, by the time they arrived, had a room prepared and waiting and was there to help bring her inside.  As always, his household was efficient, and in barely an hour’s time, she was unchained and disrobed, bathed, and laid to rest beneath the satin coverlet of a four-poster bed.  

 

Abelas had always been the better healer, and so he sat at the woman’s side to work at repairing her superficial wounds and checking for any that might lie deeper.  It was the first moment since Solas had arrived with her that there was enough time and privacy to have any manner of discussion.  With his magic focused on healing the chaffing and bruising from the bit she'd worn under Mythal’s care, Abelas spared a glance to his companion.  “I image there is a grand story behind all this.”  Solas sighed heavily and turned away from the window as he smoothed a hand over his bald head.  “Of course there is,” he said, pausing to draw nearer the bed, “but I am not certain of all the details yet.”  In a tender gesture, the Sentinel laid his hand to the side of the woman’s face.   “Then, let us begin with the ones you are certain of.”  

 

Having striped away his long, silken robe earlier, Solas was left in a high-collared sleeveless shirt, and he leaned a bare shoulder against one of the bedposts at the foot.   He folded his arms.  “She was one of Mythal’s,” and Abelas interrupted him with a groan.  With a stern glance, he continued, “She claimed the woman was willful and disobedient, though I found no such complications until the lady and lord of the manor wanted to  _ inspect _ her.”  Abelas turned a raised brow to him.  “It was more than a simple inspection.  They took her roughly, both of them, together.”  The Sentinel’s expression shifted from mild curiosity to dark anger as he stared at Solas.  “And you didn't  _ stop _ them!?  You had to know their intentions.”  

 

Solas’s eyes narrowed into pewter blades as he spoke, “I  _ tried _ to stop them, and I absolutely did  _ not _ know they intended to fuck her right there on the dais in front of the entire gala!  You know better than to think I would condone such a thing!”  He raised his voice with the flare of his temper, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose.  “You know as well as I do that such displays are frowned upon.”  The line of Abelas’s jaw set stiffly as he glanced back to the woman to see if they’d woken her.  She was still unconscious, and when the Sentinel looked back to Solas, he spoke with a lowered voice.  “What happened then?”  Solas slid his hand from his nose to rest his jaw in his palm for a moment as he shook his head.  

 

“I am uncertain.  Light emanated from her...her hands, I think.  Bright green...and the energy built until it exploded.”  Golden eyes widened to openly stare at Solas.  “It would have surely killed someone had Mythal and I not reacted so quickly with barriers.”  The Sentinel’s gaze leveled questions at Solas for which he did not have answers.   Instead, he gave a small toss of his head as he shifted away from the bedpost and came to sit on the side of the bed across from Abelas.  “I do not know what it was.  I know what it  _ felt _ like, but that is not possible.”  Solas cut his eyes to the Sentinel, who returned an expectant gaze.  When his companion failed to speak, Abelas asked, “What did it feel like?”

 

The line of Solas’s mouth grew taut as he turned a troubled, but curious eye to the woman.  “Me.  It felt like my power.”

 

\----

 

Before she opened her eyes, she listened for a moment in appraisal of her surroundings.   There was a sharp popping sound, crackling -- wood burning.  Breathing nearby, heavier than a waking breath, but not quite a snore.   And, that was all.  Then, she began taking account of herself -- no collar or restraints, no bits or gags, no muzzle.  Beneath the sheets, she felt something silken covering her body -- a nightgown, perhaps.  So many strange sensations made her fearful of opening her eyes.  There had to be some reason for this generous treatment, though she couldn't imagine what that might be.  Especially after...after…

 

Her eyes opened to dim surroundings, lit only by the fire burning in the hearth at the end of the bed.  Staring up into the heavy velvet canopy, she noted that it was a rich plum hue, gathered and bound at the bedposts by pale gold cording and lined with translucent curtains between each post.  Only one side of the curtains were drawn open, those on her side, and turning her head, she found the owner of the slow, even breathing.  Solas, her Mistress had called him.  Master, she was to call him.  

 

Taking a moment simply to look, as such was not often afforded to her, she could see he was long of body.  Reclining, his arms hung limply over the arms of his chair, and though he wasn't slouching, his legs seemed to stretch impossibly before him.  His feet were bare now, as were his arms, and he appeared much softer in sleep than he did awake.  While perhaps not traditionally handsome, he was striking, with the pronounced line of his jaw and the gentle curves of his mouth.  She imagined there were significantly worse masters to have if judging by looks alone and what she'd experienced of him this far.  

 

She hated to move as moving would likely shatter this fragile comfort into a myriad glittering pieces, and she wasn't sure she was ready to give it up yet.  As subtly as possible, she wormed her way deeper beneath the covers until only her nose and eyes remained visible above.  How long had it been since she slept in a bed?  Letting her eyes drift closed, she brought her hands over her stomach, rubbed gently at the silk covering the skin, and felt the tickle of a lace hem on her thighs.  Why all of this production?  The ambient aches in her joints told her it had happened again -- the light, the energy, the explosion.  A sudden heaviness settled in her chest as she wondered how many died this time.  

 

This time, however, she had not killed common elves; she had killed ladies and lords and…. The weighty burden in her heart shifted to her lungs, and she found her breathing outpacing her heartbeat as panic started to rise.  What would become of her now?  How much lower could she sink?  Would they kill her?   Might she accidently kill someone else?  Her hands twisted into fists in the silk of her nightgown as irrational thoughts began to bombard her.   He was sleeping; she could slip by and escape.  She wouldn't be worth tracking, would she?  

 

Glancing over to Solas, she found him still in slumber, and gathering her courage, she carefully pushed the covers aside and slipped out of the bed onto soft feet.  With a hand clasped over her mouth to guard against any inadvertent sounds, she crept around him and to the door, which sat ajar.   Peeking out of the crack, she glanced right then left and seeing no one, opened the door just enough to slip out into the hall.  Plush carpet runners led both ways, so she went right and soon found herself at the top of a grand staircase.  Her hand was light on the railing as she began down, her steps only whispers on the carpet.  

 

The staircase terminated at the center of a large foyer, and on each side of the stairs was an arch leading into a hallway.  She could see through the skylight above that it was night, though clouds seemed to cover moon and stars alike.  On the outer curve of the wall was an open doorway that led into a dimly lit room, and the other led outside.  Few lamps lit the round chamber, and she stepped cautiously down onto the marble floor.   She was less than ten feet from the door, from freedom.  Soundlessly, she passed by the open room and had raised a hand to the knob on the door leading out, when a voice spoke behind her, “Leaving us so soon?”  Her head whipped around, but she could find no one, and the voice did not belong to her master.  

 

There was little use in being silent now, and brittle, frantic noises escaped her as she struggled with the door.  It was locked.   Like a caged animal, she turned, eyes wild and frightened as she searched for the owner of the voice.   “There is no need to be alarmed.  I have no intention of harming you,” the voice claimed as a tall elf stepped from the open doorway just off the foyer.  He was long and lithe, with gilded eyes and hair the color of white gold.  It hung in a slender braid down his back.   “Please,” she all but whispered in return as she shrank against the cold door, “Just let me go.  I bring only ruin.”

 

Holding his hands up in a peaceful gesture, he gave his head a shake that caused his braid to sway.   “I am afraid that is not possible,” he said, advancing ever so slowly.   Usually, her mistress had kept her in a glyphed collar that held her magic at bay, but she was under no such restraints now.   In her hand, sparks of violet-white sprang to life, and webs of the same glinted at the corners of her eyes.  “I don't want to hurt you,” she said, the tremble in her voice raw.   The elf only smiled as he continued his creeping advance.  “You should be careful.  I might like it,” was his retort, and something about the look in his eyes told her he wasn't being coy.   

 

Her magic tingled on her fingertips, sang beneath her skin, and ached to be free.  But, the growing question in her mind was,  _ How many more need to be hurt on my account _ ?  Did she not deserve punishment?  She was clanless, exiled, and unwanted; there was no one else that would or could help her.  Except perhaps…  Her resolve wavered as her heart sank, and she followed it, allowing her desolation to drag her to her knees.  The magic on her fingertips and in her eyes waned, and she slumped bonelessly against the door and slid downward.  The marble was like ice on her bare legs, and the chill burrowed deep into her flesh.  She didn't bother lifting her face when the elf crouched before her, didn't flinch when his warm fingers touched first upon her naked shoulder, then her chin.  “Come.  You should still be in bed,” he said and stood, offering his hand down to her.  She took it, and he lifted her to her feet before guiding her to the stairs.  She followed just at his heel as they climbed, then passed before him when held the bedroom door open for her.  When the light from the hall slanted across Solas, he stirred, but by the time he fully woke, Abelas was sitting her down on the edge of the bed.  

 

Solas squinted against the intrusion of the light and scrubbed a hand across his face.  He stifled a yawn as he blinked himself more awake, and as his eyes focused, he passed a glance between his companions.  “Did something happen?” he asked, speaking to Abelas though his eyes lingered on the woman, who sat with her face down and her hands folded in her lap.  “She does not wish to burden us with her company,” the Sentinel replied as he tugged the fallen strap of her nightgown back onto her shoulder.  Solas’s brow lowered as he leaned forward to lay a brief touch on the woman's knee.  Without a word, she slunk off the bed and to her knees before him.  Stretching toward him, she lightly kissed the top of each foot.  Abelas’s eyes widened a fraction as he addressed his companion, “Willful and disobedient, hm?  It certainly seems that way.”  

 

Solas rolled his eyes in Abelas’s general direction before turning his attention fully to the woman at his feet.   “Please, sit up.  This is no longer necessary,” he implored, but she didn't budge.  Rather, she meekly spoke, “Master, may I ask a question?”  Simply, he answered, “Yes.”  Her bent back rose with a deep breath before speaking, “I would know, if it please you, how many I killed.”  The men shared a glance.  “What do you mean?” Solas asked, and the woman at his feet took a trembling breath.   “I know it happened again, the explosion.  I can...still feel it.  I would like to know how many died.”  With gentle hands, he bent to grip her shoulders and lifted her until she sat upright on her knees.  When she refused to lift her face, a hand cupping each jaw tilted up it so that he might see her eyes.  

 

Tears stood there, unshed, as she hesitantly met his gaze.  “No one died this time,” he answered her at last, and the breath that left her wracked her body with tremors as she reflexively clutched at his wrists to steady herself.  “Are you certain?” she dared to ask, so caught up in her relief that she forgot herself.   The way she looked at him, fear and hope alike were laid bare in her viridian eyes, and an unwelcomed twinge of heat sparked in his chest.  He nodded, then said, “Yes.”  She went slack, and the weight of her body sagged from his hands as she broke into gasping sobs.  “Shh.  It will be alright,” he assured her as he scooped her up into his arms.  He nodded a  _ thank you  _ at Abelas, who inclined his head in return and closed the door behind him as he left.   

 

Carrying her the few steps to the bed, Solas carefully laid her on it, but when he tried to step away, she clung fiercely to him.  “P-please...don't leave me, Master,” she pleaded, face hidden against his arm.  Shifting uncomfortably, he tried to disentangle himself from her arms, but she held tightly to him as if letting go might set her adrift in a boundless sea.  “I will not leave.  I will stay in the chair,” he offered, but her grip only tightened.  “No, here...please,” she begged again, and with a quiet breath of resignation, he consented.   “Very well.  Make room,” he said, and she immediately released him to scoot to the middle of the bed.  Propping two of the pillows against the headboard, he sat, stretched his legs out before him, and reclined.  He had but to open his arm to her, and she drew her body next to his, one arm hugging his waist, the other curled between them, and her head resting low on his chest.  

 

Solas laid a soothing hand against her lower back, while the other pushed her hair from her face.   “Thank you, Master,” she mumbled quietly into the fabric of his shirt between quiet sobs, and he shook his head.  He considered correcting her, but decided perhaps now was not the time.  “What is your name?” he asked instead, and for several long moments, she didn't answer.   When she did speak, she turned her head to rest her cheek against him as she said, “My Mistress never called me by it.”   His hand stilled in her hair, rubbing a silky, white lock between two fingers.  “I am not your Mistress, am I?”   He felt the shuddering breath she took, and she burrowed closer into his side when she said, “Niyera, Master.”  He resumed his gentle caressing of her hair, rolling the name around in his mind as they lay in silence.  In time, her sobbing quieted to hitching breaths, and those ebbed away into the slow and steady rhythm of sleep.   

  
Tilting his head back, he stared into the canopy, trying to take his mind off the warmth of the creature curled against his side, the weight of her hand on his waist, and the subtle scent of lilac soap that lingered in her hair.   The whispers in the gala’s crowd had been correct; he no longer took slaves as a rule, hadn't for years, but they would not have been aware that he'd taken precious few lovers to his bed in that time either.  He had forgotten the comfort of a warm body next to him, someone slight and soft, someone who found sanctuary in him as he did in them.  His eyes hesitantly strayed to Niyera, taking in the way the firelight painted gold on her cheek and the long line of her legs, where the thigh-length nightgown failed to cover them.  He pretended not to have noticed how her breathing had fallen in time with his or how her fingers curled tighter in the hem of his shirt when she murmured in her sleep.  How that twisted the fabric just enough to let her knuckles brush his ribs.   He tamped down the shudder that rose in him to little more than a slight shiver, but it stirred her all the same, and she nuzzled into his chest and shifted to twine one of her legs over his.   He stared off into the fire and whispered a quiet  _ Fenedhis. _


	11. Day 11 - Bond (Empathic) & Kinda Aphrodisiacs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stealing bonds from day 6 and aphrodisiacs from day 1 to use for day 11. You might say they're magical aphrodisiacs.
> 
> This is a continuation of Chapter 10.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagging for empathic bond and aphrosdisiac for shits and giggles.
> 
> Mostly fluff. Some touchy-feely, OMFG why am I suddenly so horny things.
> 
> With my shitty grasp of linguistics, "la'nuvena'ma" is supposed to mean "as you wish."

When Solas woke, the fire was no more than ash in the hearth, and the sun filtered through the gauzy window sheers in a pale haze.  Though he hadn't intended to fall asleep, it seemed as if they'd spent the whole of the night and, judging by the light, a large portion of the following day just as they had been when he did.  Niyera was draped over him, one arm around him and a leg over his, while her face was snugged against his chest.  He could feel the easy rise and fall of her breathing, and with a single finger, he curled the hair that had fallen over her face back behind her ear.  The light touch caused her to stir, and her body folded in on itself, arm tucked beneath her chin and leg bent and pulled closer to her chest.  Beneath her, he stiffened, trying and failing to ignore the slow caress up the inside of his leg.  

 

Why had he ever consented to this?  He went against his own convictions to take possession of her, to bring her here.  True slavery was not a practice he could any longer abide, and yet, here he was, a slave... _ his _ slave...resting supple and warm against him.  And, though he cursed himself for it, he wanted nothing so much in this moment as to take her and mark her as his own.  His hand smoothed along her back, a thin layer of silk all that kept his skin from hers.   What was this consuming need to touch her?  He wasn't a man of weak resolve.  He had resisted all attempts thus far to ply him with young, pretty things, used as little more than bribery to sway him from his condemnation of a practice that had a long and storied history in Arlathan.  But this one, given with no expressed purpose or design, had slipped past his barriers.  Why?  The back of her nightgown bunched under his fingertips, and he forced his hand into a fist to resist hitching it higher so he could touch her skin.  

 

With a breath of frustration, he pushed the heel of his free hand against his eyes as if the action could forcibly bring to a halt the desires threatening to betray him.  He focused on his breathing:  in and out.  He willed his muscles to unclench, his breathing to slow.  Though muffled against his chest, Niyera mumbled something in her sleep.  It was quiet, so faint that he couldn’t make out what she’d said.  He’d barely heard it at all.  Behind his hand, his eyes closed as he pressed his fingers into his brow.  He breathed, and his blood quieted...until her hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt.  His stomach hollowed at the touch, and the growing arousal he’d only just managed to subdue ran down his spine like a bolt of flame.  Slow to fall from his eyes, his hand slid down his face, fingers hovering over his lips as her fingers splayed across his stomach.  He barely breathed as she kneaded into skin untouched by any hand but his own for more years than he cared to count.  His eyes fluttered as his heart sped up, and every brush against his skin sent a pulse straight to his groin.

 

He knew he should speak, but his voice seemed caught on the lump in his throat.  He knew them, all the words he  _ should _ say -- like  _ stop _ or  _ wake up _ or  _ you don’t realize what you’re doing _ \-- but he could barely swallow, much less speak.  Just like that, the opportunity came and went because when she rolled her hips into him, grinding against his thigh, all significant thought evaporated like morning dew under the midday sun.  His eyes rolled back as his hand fell to the bed beside him, gathering a fist of sheets, and the other pulled her nightgown up just enough so that his hand could press into the small of her back.  She murmured again, but this time, loud enough to understand.    _ Master _ , she whispered before shifting to settle herself between his legs, and he readily moved to accommodate her.  Her eyes were half-lidded, all at once sleepy and aroused, as she pushed higher beneath his shirt now with both hands.  Leaning back on her heels, her lips fell to the skin she’d bared, feathery kisses that made him ache with how sweet they felt.  Everything about her touch was satin, smooth and warm, gliding over his ribs to his chest.

 

Without a word, she tugged his shirt up, and with no thought at all, he found himself moving to allow her to pull it off over his head.  She twisted the cloth in her hands and brought it to her face, inhaling deeply, eyes fluttering before she tossed it away and climbed up to straddle his hips.  She was, unquestionably, awake as her eyes settled on his, and she purposefully rocked her hips into him.  He groaned as his head drooped back on the pillows, and the already uncomfortably tight fit of his leggings was even moreso now.  “Niyera,” he managed to hoarsely whisper as she inched her way down his body again, hands dragging along his ribs as she went.  His head tipped up, and he lay transfixed as she lowered herself to trace the tip of her tongue around his navel.  The angle perched her backside in the air, allowing her nightgown to slip up to her waist to reveal ample swell of flesh it had hidden.  He sucked in a breath, and it made a dip in his stomach, one she chased with her lips until they found his skin.  “Niyera, you should stop,” he struggled to say, managing to do so with only the slightest tremble in his voice.  Instead, she ran her tongue from his navel to the waist of his leggings, then brought her hands down to work at their lacings.  

 

His hands were fists in the sheets beneath him, and his knuckles ached with the effort not to move, not to touch her, not to overpower her, pin her to the bed, and ravish her the way his every heartbeat urged him to.  Oh, as right as this felt, an annoying little trill in the back of his mind reminded him that it wasn’t.  That there was more going on here than a body too long neglected, a beauty too eager to please.  This desire that was blinding in its intensity, especially for two that had known each other for less than a day.  With a pained growl of frustration, he finally moved, catching her wrists just as she was finished loosening the lacings of his leggings.  “You...have to stop,” he said as firmly as he could manage, and her face tilted up to stare at him from beneath her furrowed brow.  The pink tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips as her head canted to one side, and when she moved to sit back on her heels, he let her wrists go.  “Why?” she inquired, slowly smoothing a hand over the silk covering her stomach and up to palm her breast beneath the cloth.  “Do I not please you?” she asked, her other hand raking up a thigh before snaking between her legs.  

 

He found it impossible to pull his eyes from the sight, and between his legs was an achingly constant throb.  “No,” he forced out, “it is not that at all.”  Bracing his elbows on his knees, he bowed his head to lace his fingers behind his neck.  He felt fevered, all over, his pulse pounded in his temples and in his groin, and he was beginning to feel lightheaded.  That was when he felt a cool rush of air and felt something silken brush his arm.  He turned his head, and her nightgown was lying on the bed beside him.  By the time he turned back to her, she was straddling his legs in naught but her smalls and was shuffling past his knees.  A heavy breath left him as his hands fell away to rest on the bed, and she settled astride his lap as she reached to drape her arms over his shoulders.  He was watching her, eyes fixed on hers, as she smoothed a hand across the back of his head.  “It’s been so long since anyone has taken care of you,” she said softly, drawing gentle fingers down to massage at the back of his neck. 

  
He couldn’t even begin to hide his surprise at her words, surprise that dissolved into a hollow sensation at the center of his chest, the sort that comes when you’ve been unexpectedly laid bare.  His resolve was melting with every passing moment, and he found his fingers tracing idle circles on her thighs.  “You should let me take care of you,” she whispered, lifting a hand to the side of his face.  Her thumb smoothed over his cheek, dropped to trace the bow of his lips.  Bowing her head, she kissed one corner of his mouth, then the other before peppering lighter kisses to his ear.  “Please,” she breathed against his ear, and a shiver wracked him from head to toe as his hands coasted along her ribs.  “Let me take care of you,” was the last thing she said before he pulled her away, just enough to look at her, before taking her face in both of his hands.  Tugging her gingerly down to him, he lifted his face to whisper against her lips, “ _ La'nuvena'ma _ ,” before capturing her mouth with his.


	12. Days 12, 13, 14 - Master/Slave, Body Worship, Role Reversal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 12 (master/slave), 13 (body worship - borrowed from day 7), and day 14 (role reversal).
> 
> Continuation of Chapter 11.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Tumblr post:
> 
> Between job # 1 and job # 2, ya girl is brain dead. And I’ve looked at this for as long as I can.
> 
> So, for @kinktober2017, I have day 12 (master/slave), day 13 (body worship - that I borrowed from day 7), and day 14 (role reversal).
> 
> Solavellan Master/Slave AU. Nothing abusive here. All lovey, almost fluffy, but also naughty. A little hand stuff, and some oral, and some sex. The usual. 
> 
> Bed now. So tired.
> 
> feneir means snow wolf. The other stuff…is dirty. Look it up here.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7825850

He savored their kiss; her lips were every bit as devastating and exquisite as they appeared -- lush and inviting, full of promise and desire.  She tasted like honey, rich and impossibly sweet, and his tongue found a gracious welcome when it slid across her lips.   Behind his neck, her arms entwined, and his hands sank into her white tresses.  The strands were soft like satin and spilled through his fingers as water might.   He gathered her hair and held it loosely at the nape of her neck, but it inevitably escaped his grasp.  He would scoop it up again, and it was like trying to catch a swiftly flowing river.  He found himself smiling against her lips, enamored with everything from the drape of her hair to the fragile sounds she made, a delicate and clipped mewl that was soon lost beneath breaths and heartbeats.  

 

When they finally parted, both were breathless, and he found his eyes drawn to her lips, blushed and plump from his attentions.  They stood parted slightly with her breaths, and he thought her inextricably lovely in that moment.  She stirred him from his reverie by laying her hands flat against his chest, urging him backward and down. “Lie back, _ Master _ ,” she said, and before she could pull away, he caught her wrists.  “Solas,” he insisted, finally correcting her.  The smile that eased to her lips and streaked blush on her pale cheeks was timid.  But, she nodded all the same and leaned into him, her words whispered against his cheek.  “Solas, lie back.”  One corner of his mouth lifted as he released her wrists and scooted down a bit before settling on the pillows.  With one arm bent behind his head, he let the other hand rest on her thigh as he stroked her skin.  

 

Though his observation of her was quiet, his mind was anything but.   Was this right?  Should he allow it?  Was he taking advantage?  He had to remind himself that she had made the first overture.  That he  _ had _ stopped her, but she persisted.  As she leaned forward, her warmth consequently shifted on his length, and even through his leggings, her desire was painfully apparent.  He took a sharp breath as she teased the tip of her nose along the slope of his ear before retracing the path with her tongue.  His eyes fell shut, and he caught his bottom lip between his teeth.  When she progressed lower, she paused at his pulse, and he would swear he could feel its rhythm against her tongue as her open-mouthed kiss allowed her to taste both his skin and his excitement.  Each sample she claimed with her mouth was punctuated by a rock of her hips, and before he could stop himself, he moaned her name beneath his breath.  Only then did she move on, pulling his top lip between hers, then the bottom before capturing his chin and insistently nudging her tongue past his lips.  Unhurried, she explored his mouth, and her tongue played over his as her hands mapped his face.  She touched upon his temples and smoothed a palm over the crown of his head before it came to rest beneath his jaw.  

 

Her every touch was a comfort in itself, a gentle expression such as would pass between lovers long engaged, but the whole of her together was a balm to the body and the soul.  She said farewell to the kiss with a stroke of her fingers beneath his ears, but before she departed, she breathed her pleasure against his mouth.  “I have never tasted sweeter,” she said, the tip of her tongue snaking out once more to slip between his lips.  He sucked lightly on the intruder before she leaned back.  He gave chase as she departed, but a hand on his chest was enough to hold him in place.  Another brush of her lips grazed his chin and the hollow of his throat as the side-to-side sway of her hips took her lower.  As she worked herself onto his hips, his arousal was trapped between them and stroked with every movement.  Heat rushed through him, radiating from the base of his spine to suffuse his shoulders and race across his scalp.  He trembled, and the beguiling hint of a smile on her lips told him it'd been entirely intentional.  Her fingers skipped from his neck to his collarbones, where she stroked her thumbs as she held his gaze.  When she spoke, her words were as light as her touch, “Why am I no longer to call you Master?  Are you not?”  Lowering the arm tucked beneath his head, he allowed his hands to perch on her hips.  “No, I am not,” he offered, voice soft with the shortness of his breath.  Her head canted, and her viridian eyes strayed to study her fingers playing on his skin; they over the contours of his chest.  

 

“Then,” she began hesitantly, “I am no longer a slave?”  Her eyes slanted up, her chin still low and leaving her to gaze at him from beneath her brow.  He ran the flat of his palms over her hips, and he watched where his skin met hers with careful consideration.  “You are not,” he answered, the tips of his fingers dipping beneath the waist of her smalls to press into the rise where her back met her buttocks.  “If you stay here, it will be because that is what you want, and if you don a collar and call me Master, it will be for pleasure only,” he explained as he let his eyes pan up to hers to gauge her response.   Thoughtfulness settled on her as she leaned forward, the stiff peaks of her breasts teased along his chest.  From the base of his throat to his chin, she drew the tip of her tongue, and he tilted his head back in response.  “Who would find pleasure in such a thing?” she asked before she kissed the underside of his jaw and skimmed her lips to his neck.  The slight inflection in her voice betrayed her, and he gave a throaty chuckle.  “You forget, little  _ feneir _ , I have seen the way you took to your tail, the slick between your thighs even before you had,” he reminded her as his fingers crept up her ribs. 

 

He felt her lips curve on his skin, and she nipped at him before she straightened to meet his gaze.  There was a hint of bashfulness about her when she found his eyes.  “And, you would hold my leash?” she inquired before she squirmed her way further down his legs.  He bit down on a groan as her movement ground her heat along his trapped length. “Yes,” he said, though it was more of a breath than speech.  “And Abelas?” she continued, stretching over his stomach as she lowered her mouth to his chest.  Flicking the tip of her tongue over a nipple, she glanced up at him as she tweaked the other.  From between his teeth, he hissed out a breath and involuntarily lifted his hips against her.  “If you like and he consents,” he answered as he threaded his fingers into her hair, kneading at the nape of her neck as he watched her.  When her teeth grazed his nipple, his cock twitched in its cramped confines before her mouth sank lower on his body.  To his navel she ventured and twirled her tongue about the rim, then wiggled her way down on the bed until her arms rested over his thighs.

 

By the time she strayed to the skin beneath his navel, there was a noticeable quiver low in his body, and he had handfuls of the sheets again.  Along the light auburn trail that disappeared beneath his leggings, she traced her lips, pausing only when she reached for the laces again.  “And you?” she asked, and her gaze turned up the length of his body as she began to tug the last few cords free of their eyelets with her lips and teeth.  Every inch of muscle in his body jerked taut when her lips grazed the fabric covering his cock, and he fidgeted with the effort not to lose his composure.  “Who holds your leash, Solas?”  He twisted the sheets as she flung the laces of his leggings away, and he rasped, “At this moment?”  She drug the tip of a single digit along the bulge beneath his leggings, and his brows knitted together as his voice dropped low.  “You,” he finally managed to say.  He wasn't certain when he had stopped breathing and was only sure that he had when she peeled back the plackets of his leggings and freed his length.  He exhaled a breath colored with a throaty moan as her slender fingers encircled the base of his shaft.  She brushed her cheek along his length, then with her eyes settled unwaveringly on his, she tongued the slit to collect the bead of fluid that had gathered there.  A rumble borne from deep in his chest shook through him from head to toe.

 

“Then what shall you call me?”  Hooking her hands into the waist of his leggings at either hip, she drug them down his legs, carefully lifting each by the heel to tug the garment off.  Leggings discarded, she laid her hands against his calves and grazed higher as she stretched out.  In his devotion to his observation of her body, he neglected to answer, enthralled by every movement.  She paused at his knees, and her eyes flicked up to his in question.  Without further hesitation, he hoarsely whispered, “Mistress.”  Her smile was so subtle it could barely be said to exist at all, and she lowered herself to set her lips against his inner thighs, taunting the tender skin until she was lying with her arms draped over his legs and her hands on his hips. Like a feline scenting its territory, she scrubbed her cheek against his inner thigh before nuzzling into the underside of his cock.  Every inch of skin tingled with the electricity sparked by her touch, her lips so close.  He was intoxicated by the whole of her.  

 

In one small hand, she cradled his sac as she brushed her lips along the side of his shaft.  “Say it again,” she commanded, and his hips lifted subtly as he responded, breathless but without pause.  “Mistress.”  She rewarded him with the parting of her lips on the head of his cock, barely brushing the crown as her tongue drew lazy circles on the tip.  He made no effort to restrain his voice as his head fell back, and he moaned through the sensation of her mouth gliding down his length, lips firmly grasping his girth.  There was no one thing that unbound him.   It was all the years bereft of touch.  The inexplicable bond that connected them.  Her relentless desire to please him. How she'd so easily turned the tables to wrap him around her little finger.  If there had ever been a time when he had wanted anyone more, he could not recall it.  

 

Leisurely, she rose on his length before descending again an inch at a time.  Every breath he exhaled was at least in part a moan, and he could no longer sit still.  He craved the leverage to bury himself in the heat of her delectable mouth.  But she held him fast, taking her pleasure from him as surely as she gave it.   Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes and simply allowed himself to  _ feel _ .  The heels of her hands had settled in the dip of his hip bones, and she kneaded at the skin as she lavished her affection on him.  Unrushed, her tongue explored every inch of his cock and beneath, and her lips grazed on his shaft before she swallowed him down until the tip of her nose brushed his body.  The flutter of her throat around his head drove him near delirium, and he pumped in shallow strokes against its resistance as the heat low in his belly tightened into a coil.  When she finally rose onto her knees again, her mouth lingered on the head, tongue painting languid strokes.  Tremors raked down his spine with each flick, and breaths became pants that deepened into moans as he fought to restrain himself.  In the end, he was not too proud.  

 

“Niyera...please,” he pleaded, and she took a final pull on him before she crawled up into his lap.  Her knees sank into the mattress on either side of his hips, and she ran her hand down the back of his head to clutch at the nape of his neck as she settled.  “Would it please you if I stayed, Solas?” she asked, sliding her free hand down his chest to the small place between them to she worked his length between her lower lips.  His jaw fell slack, and no sound issued forth from between his parted lips.  Each smooth little thrust allowed him to glide against her heat and slick as she began to rock, not penetrating, just friction.   The desperation in his voice when he moaned surprised him, and it took a moment for him to answer.  “It is not...about  _ my _ pleasure.”  Her hips rolled in a circle as she teased him, her hand massaging at the back of his neck.  “It is if I say it is,” she protested, the words broken as the head of his length nudged the bundle of nerves between her legs, and she bit down on a loud  _ mmmm _ .  For the first time, in quite a while, he lifted his face to gaze at her with eyes that were unfocused, but no less intense.  “Yes, I want…” and his words fell away to an unintelligible string of breaths and moans.  She paused the circuits of her hips and sat breathless as she awaited his answer.  He swallowed, and he managed to nod. “I would….very much enjoy it...if you stayed.”

 

“Then, I’ll stay,” she breathed against his lips as she bent forward and rose onto her knees and wrapped her thin fingers around his shaft.  He couldn't restrain the lift of his hips, already well slicked by her arousal, and the ridges of her fingers over his head wrestled a shuddering moan from him.  It was short-lived, however, as he felt the tip of his cock breech her opening, and abruptly, his breath became lodged in his throat.   A swivel of her hips seated him deeper inside her, and her hand on the back of his neck pulled his mouth to hers.  In the next instant, as his hands found purchase in her hair, she bucked back as he thrust upward, and he was fully sheathed inside.  She tried to break away from the kiss to voice her pleasure, but he held her fast, and a moan was shared between his mouth and hers.  In his hands, he felt her resistance wane, and her subtle submission etched flame across his skin.  

 

From where it had lain momentarily dormant, his need to possess her reemerged in the tug of his hand on her hip, pulling her down and onto him as he rocked into her.  The force of his kiss bent her neck, her body, and he twined an arm around her waist to support her.  With his grip on her chin, he turned her head aside so he could taste her skin and scrape teeth over her pulse.  The change in the pace of her thrusts told him his technique was effective and encouraged him.  His teeth dug in until she cried out and clamped her fingers onto his shoulders, at which point his tongue swept slow strokes over the bruised skin.   His lips fell lower, nibbling at the hollow of her throat and her collarbone before his hand beneath lifted a breast to his mouth.  With a stuttering rhythm, his tongue teased the stiff peak, earning him a low moan before he sucked it into his mouth.  In earnest, he suckled at her skin, one arm tight on her waist while the other kneaded at the soft flesh on which he fed.  

 

She didn't rise and fall on him so much as she rocked, the muscles in her stomach and legs guiding her body through undulations that drew him in, then pushed him back.  The harried, half-moans she offered became full-throated as her back arched, doing nothing so much as presenting her chest to him while she tugged at the back of his neck to urge him on.  A soft growl signaled his acceptance of her invitation, and his lips chased kisses along the valley between as he moved to the other breast.  He was near lost to his lust as his teeth scraped over the pebbled bud, and her gasp brought a wolfish smile to his lips before it was lost in his consumption of her flesh.  “ _ Solas _ ,” she all but whimpered his name as her hand raked nails across his torso, and he dimly recognized her intention.  There was a wet sound when he pulled off her breast and batted her hand away.  Nimble fingers sank into the apex of her thighs, just above where their bodies met, and found the swollen bundle of nerves there.  The first touch tore a ragged moan from her lips, and her chastised hand fell over his shoulder.  

 

Her entire body grew taut as she became ever more vocal, head thrown back as she rode him.   The first hint of her tightening on his cock drew something more like a rumble from him than a moan. That was when it happened.  He lost track of time, of her, of himself as he was overcome with sensation -- his blood was ringing in his ears, sweat glistened on his skin, and his heart was pounding so hard, he thought it might stop.  “ _ Nuvenan rosa’da’din in ma sule enan’ma. _ ”, he moaned across her skin, and her head fell forward to rest her cheek against the curve of his brow.  “ _ Isalan hima sa i’na _ .  Mark me and make me yours,” she begged, clinging to him.  His voice was low and dark when he wrapped her in his arms and leaned back, dragging her with him.  Forced to relinquish her hold, her gnarled fingers groped for handfuls of the sheets as they landed to either side of his head, and his hands slapped down on her ass as he maneuvered her against him as he dug his heels into the bed for leverage and drove up into her.  

 

Her hair fell in curtains around his face, and she was screaming her pleasure by the time he felt her body begin to clench and tremble on his length.  He bowed up, taking possession of her mouth as she unraveled, and every sound she gave echoed through him and buried itself deep in his body.  The rhythm of her thrusts became uncontrolled and wild as her climax crashed into, over, and through her.  It was his guidance that led her, and in so doing, he propelled himself ever closer to his own crest.  A deep moan broke from her lips as she finally tore her mouth from his, panting as she stared down at him for one long breathless and heated moment.  He was lost in her eyes when he came undone.  Against his neck, tickling at his earlobe, her voice lavished breathless whispers of praise onto him as he spilled into her with thrust after thrust.  She guided him through each concussive wave of his orgasm, then pushed him to the boundaries of his endurance.  

 

When he opened his mouth to cry out, he failed to find his voice.  Sensitivity bound his pleasure with threads of pain, and he set his teeth into her shoulder to share the sensation with her.  She sucked in a sharp hiss of a breath, and he flicked his tongue over the skin caught between his teeth.  Shuddering beneath his hands, her cries were meek and broken with pleasure.  It stirred something feral in him, and his grip shifted.  With one hand on the back of her neck and the other on her hip, he rolled her beneath him without unseating himself.  The momentum carried him into a thrust, and he drove his mouth against hers, grinding into her through the last pulses of his peak.  There was no asking or giving, there was only taking as his tongue bullied its way into her mouth.  He kissed her as if he would consume her, and his fervent devouring only ceased when his need for air necessitated it.  Even then, he only released her lips with reluctance to settle his sweat-dampened forehead against her neck as his shoulders heaved with the depth of his breaths.  

 

He wasn’t certain when it had occurred, but he was wrapped in her; her arms were strung around his neck, one hand laid against the back of his head, and her legs were hooked about his waist.  Every bit of him was trembling, every muscle, and he eased down onto his elbows, while she murmured wordless comforts in his ear.  The simultaneous chill that swept over him, cooling the sweat on his skin, and the warmth that flooded the cage of his body was disorienting.  Eventually, the lightheadedness pulled his weight fully on her as he laid against her, and she simply held him.  It may have been no more than moments, but it seemed like a lifetime before he shifted onto his side and pulled her with him.  There was still a faint shiver in his fingers when he pushed the damp locks of hair from her forehead and laid his palm beneath her jaw, thumb grazing her cheek.  

  
Between them, there was only the sound of their breaths, and he silently marveled at her; the flush that tinted her pale skin, the way her lashes fanned against her cheek as her eyes lingered closed.  It wasn’t so much a coherent thought as it was a feeling that washed through him; it was in the way she held him, how her fingers still traced along the base of his skull in light, airy touches.  It was the far-above look in her eyes when she finally opened them, the enigmatic smile on her lips.  Whoever she was,  _ whatever _ she was, she was home to him.  His hearth and his comfort.  His sanctuary and his salvation.  With all due reverence, he brushed his lips against hers and knew he was her slave.


	13. Day 15 - Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scars for day 15 of Kinktober. 
> 
> Cullen and Caitlin Trevelyan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly just fluffy stuff here.

The wan light of a single candle flame lit her chambers.  It was the middle of the night, and beyond the balcony doors, a blizzard raged fast and furious.  The wind was a constant howl, and the sound of it evoked thoughts of ice and cold so vivid that it gave Caitlin a chill.  She exhaled quietly as she rolled onto her side and propped her head in her hand.  The noise seemed not to bother Cullen in the slightest, as he slept soundly, stretched out on his stomach with his face turned toward her.  On nights like these, the ones where there were no nightmares, she loved to watch him sleep.  During his waking hours, he carried so much weight -- on his shoulders, in his head, in his heart -- that it frequently wrinkled his forehead, knitted his brow, and made a stern, downturned line of his lips.  But, on nights like these, all of that was gone, the skin normally bunched with stress and concentration was smooth, and the muscles pinched tight with the burdens he bore relaxed.  

 

So, she took these opportunities where she could find them to simply look at him.  Were he awake, he would uncomfortably attempt to distract her or change the subject as her examination, fond and loving though it was, made him self-conscious.  She never could understand why.  What did he think she saw when she looked at him?  His arms were wrapped around the pillow beneath his head, leaving both them and his shoulders exposed.  Though she was certain the acquisition of it had been unpleasant, she couldn’t imagine Cullen without the scar that marked his upper lip.  She found it roguish, and it did nothing to diminish his smile.  And, it was certainly far from being his only scar.  Some of them were faint, like the ones that peppered his forearms and biceps, little more than pale shadows against his skin, barely noticeable.  As her mind wandered, she found her fingers following suit, and she traced those scars that crisscrossed his arms.

 

Feather-light, her touch didn’t cause him to stir.  She kept a keen eye on his face for the first few moments to be certain.  And, when there was no reaction, she allowed her eyes to trail to his shoulders, following the route of her fingers.  The expanse of his broad shoulders was largely unmarred, save a single ragged scar about as wide as her index and middle fingers and longer than her hand.  It traveled from the back of his right shoulder blade diagonally toward his spine.  She smoothed the edge of her thumb across it, noting the ridge it had created on his skin.  It was an old scar, pale and almost iridescent.  Impulsively, she rose on her elbow and leaned to place a lingering kiss on the raised tissue.  That  _ did _ cause him to stir, but only enough for him to nuzzle deeper into his pillow.  It drew a gentle smile on her lips, and emboldened by his lack of a response, she carefully peeled the layers of blankets back until he was bare to the waist.

 

The chill air on warm skin chased goosebumps up his arms, but his eyes remained closed.  Her eyes coasted from his muscled shoulders down the line of his back, and every time she found a scar, no matter how faint, she bent to kiss it.  And, she watched him.  Halfway down his spine, his breathing began to speed up, and a low murmur slid past his lips.  However, when his eyes failed to open, she continued on.  A press of her lips here, on his side just past his ribs, and another there, close enough to his spine that an inch further, and he wouldn’t be here now.  He shifted, the whisper of his skin on the sheets, then stilled once more.  It was the brush of her lips against the small of his back that finally roused him enough that his eyes opened, and he was still blinking the sleep away when he turned his gaze to her.  “Caitlin?”  She smiled at him, pressing her palm into the dip in his back as she leaned to plant another kiss on his flank.  The corners of his eyes crinkled as he shifted under her touch, and a deep rumble rolled through his chest.

 

“What is this?  Hm?” he asked as he turned, and she leaned away long enough to let him roll onto his back.  “Are you complaining?” she asked in return as she tugged the blankets further down, leaving them crumpled across his knees.  A brow lifted over an amber eye as he gazed down his body at her, idly scrubbing a hand over his chest before it came to rest on his belly.  “Not yet,” he replied, his sleep-roughed voice making the words sound like a grumble.  Her chuckle was soft as she slid her eyes from his.  Cullen had taken to sleeping in the nude of late, leaving all of him laid bare to her gaze as she rose onto her knees.  “Are you expecting to?” she inquired as she straddled his legs, her attention intently focused on his muscled thighs.  There.  Just above his left knee was another scar.  She bent, tracing her lips over the length of the still pink mark, and she felt a shiver beneath her mouth.  “I’m torn, really,” he said, sounding more awake.  “On one hand, it  _ is _ cold,” he continued, the hand on his belly falling lower to splay fingers to either side of the base of his stiffening length, “yet on the other…”  His voice drew off as he massaged briefly then let his hand rest again on his stomach.

 

“Don’t worry, Commander.  I’ll make sure you don’t freeze to death,” she assured him as she tugged up the hem of her thigh-length chemise and shuffled until she sat astride his thighs.  He regarded her thoughtfully as her hands coasted over his hip bones, noting that her gaze followed her hands.  Just above his navel and off to the right, there was another scar that was no doubt a mate to one she’d found on his back.  Settling her hands on his sides, she bowed over him to set her lips against the pucker of skin.  It took more than one kiss to span its length, and when she finally looked up at him, a familiar half-bashful, half-pained expression had overtaken his features.  “Caitlin,” he said, and there was a question in the tone of his voice and a hint of anxiety.  “Cullen,” she began, sidling up his body until her knees were pressed to either side of his hips, “You really have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?”  He had opened his mouth to protest after she’d spoken his name, but her next words stopped him short, and his jaw slowly fell shut.  “I-,” was all he managed to say after a moment.  Color rose on his cheeks as he studied her and drew one hand to settle on her thigh.

 

Her lips curled upward, and she lowered herself to brush her lips to a faint line that crossed his sternum, then stretched reach another on the front slope of his shoulder.  Her attentions strayed briefly to his neck before she rose again, and he turned his face in avoidance of her gaze.  With one hand braced on his chest, she gently gripped his chin with the other and turned his face toward her.  “There’s only one left,” she said and gingerly deposited a kiss on the scar across his upper lip.  She had only just begun to lean back when his hand found its way beneath her hair to grip the back of her neck, and he tugged her mouth back to his.  It was a slow kiss, a caress of lips and tongues, and it lit a spark that kindled a fire she could feel in her belly.  It was in his hands, too, when they caught her face, threaded into her hair, and tilted her head just so to allow him to deepen the embrace of his mouth on hers.  As he leaned up from the bed, she twined her arms about his neck and shifted to wrap her legs around his torso as he settled her in his lap. 

 

When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathless, and he leaned his forehead against hers.  Murmuring her contentment, her fingers scraped into his hair at the nape of his neck, and she said, barely above a whisper, “I love you.”  His soft chuckle was hoarse, as were his words when he said, “I know,” before brushing his lips to each of her eyelids and her cheeks before claiming her mouth once more.


	14. Day 16 - Incest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany laments Carver's death on their escape from Lothering, and Garrett's well-meaning attempt to comfort her turns into something else entirely.
> 
> Tagged for incest, rough sex, choke play, drunk sex (drunk incest?), and fingering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I'm going straight to hell for this one.
> 
> Forgive me...somebody...for I have sinned. I mean, I sort of did it on purpose, but it was supposed to be short and sweet (so to speak), and then it turned into a six page monstrosity.
> 
> Straight. To. Hell.
> 
> Pray for me.

Bethany just hadn't been the same since their escape from Lothering.  Her normally vibrant dark eyes were hollow, shallow with sparse or restless sleep.   She spoke little and ate less; their mother worried for her.   Garrett tried to be attentive to her, but she was largely despondent.   He couldn't imagine what it was like, losing a twin.  To watch Carver perish.   He'd always heard that the bond between twins was inherently close, almost like a soul link.   They'd been running, all fear and fury, when the ogre barred their path.  Bethany had been at the fore of their group and nearly ran headlong into the creature, and despite Garrett’s warning, Carver put himself between them.  The elder Hawke was willing to acknowledge that it had likely saved her life, but it also cost Carver his.   

 

While they never got on exceedingly well, Carver  _ was _ still his brother, and Garrett felt his loss.   But nothing like Bethany did.  --  It was well into the night when Garrett returned to Gamlen’s hovel.  He'd spent the day scrounging up jobs.  Around Kirkwall, mercenary for hire seemed a profitable occupation.  Afterward, he’d met Varric at the Hanged Man.  Many hours and drinks later, he'd decided to walk home while he could still manage with some semblance of normalcy.   A fire in the hearth lit his way as he walked toward the room he shared with Bethany, but he paused just outside the door.   The sound of her sobs was soft, her hitching breaths echoing in the empty room.  His heart ached for her, and perhaps even more, it plagued him that he didn’t know how to make it better.  

 

He pushed out a heavy breath as he worked his way free of each piece of armor, sitting it aside before pushing the door to their shared room open.  The light from the fire fell across her face, and she quickly acted to stifle her tears as Garrett closed the door behind him.  “Bethany?” he whispered as he passed over to her pallet bed and crouched at its edge.   Her dark eyes passed briefly up to him, more than brimming with tears -- they were filled to overflowing with sorrow, loneliness, and pain.  She hid her face behind both hands when he laid a gentle touch on her shoulder, and he felt her tremble as her tears returned.  

 

“Oh,  Bethy,” Garrett sighed and tugged back the blankets to slide into bed beside her.  All he had to do was open his arms, and she immediately crawled into them and pressed her face into his chest.  Her skin was hot, and her tears easily soaked through the thin linen of his shirt.  Seeing her this way send a pang of near physical pain through him.  Smoothing a hand across her back, he whispered in a low, soothing voice against her hair.   “I'm so sorry, Bethy.  If I could change it, I would.”   Her hands were fists in his shirt, and she continued to hide her face against his chest.  He murmured soft  _ shhh _ s at her, a hand caressing her back, another toying with the ends of her hair.  

 

He wasn't sure how long they laid like that -- his head was fuzzy with drink, and he was lulled further by his sister’s warmth.  He could tell by her breathing and the lack of tension in her body that she had almost entirely stopped crying.  Only the occasional shiver marred her breathing, which was otherwise slow and even against his shoulder.  His hands were still gentle travelers over her back and hair when she shifted against him.  For the first time since he'd slipped into bed beside her, she spoke, her breath tickling against the hollow of his throat.  “I miss him so much,” she said softly as she snaked an arm over his side.  “I know,” he replied and cradled the back of her head in his hand.  His fingers tangled in her hair as he stroked it, and he felt her chest swell against his as she sighed.  “Better now?” he asked quietly, and her answer came in the press of her lips against the side of his neck.  His hand stilled, but her lips continued to travel,  over his pulse that was considerably faster now to his earlobe, which she pulled between her lips.   “Bethany,” he breathed, voice low and graveled as he braced a hand on her shoulder.  

 

Her voice was a whimper, and the tip of her tongue teased the outer shell of his ear.  A groan escaped him before he could stop himself, each brush of her lips and caress of her tongue sending blood rushing southward.  He was already uncomfortably hard when he used his grip on her shoulder to wrench her away, not as far as arm’s length, but out of reach of her damning lips.  “You need to stop,” he said in a hush as he found her eyes, sheened silver with the moonlight that fell in through the room’s only window.   She licked her full lips as she squirmed in his grip, and his breath became lodged in his throat when she pressed her palm down over his erection and stroked him through the fabric.

 

Carver had told him before that he and Bethany had been intimate, and while he had been unsure of how to react to that information, he couldn't deny that he had felt an uncomfortable measure of jealousy at the idea.  He also couldn't deny that he had found pleasure in the woman time had made of her.  She was all dark hair and eyes, full heavy breasts, hips that rounded into a pert ass, and legs that seemed to go on for days.  He had shamefully taken himself in hand more times than he could count with her image in his mind.  Her lips branding his skin reminded him of the guilt he'd felt watching her, unknown, as she bathed or the thrill it gave him she hugged him and the swell of her bosom was crushed against him.  And, her touch, oh her touch, it made him long for something he knew he shouldn't want.  

 

“Please, Garrett,” she begged, her hand gripping and kneading at the bulge beneath his pants, and he bit down on his lower lip and fought to control his breathing.  The look on her face, the insistence of her hand, and he was helpless but to let his eyes roam over her body, trim beneath the roomy drape of her linen shift.  The thin fabric clung to all the right places, every curve, to drive a man's mind to distraction.  Falling short of her knees, the fabric ended at mid-thigh, but was already hitched up in the front to reveal the apex of her legs where her hand was already tucked and working at a spot he couldn’t see.  He couldn’t help but stare, swearing softly as he forced his eyes back to hers, and it took but a moment’s look there before the tension immediately went out of the arm that held her.   

 

Worming beneath his arm, she slid over against him, taking a fistful of his shirt as she held herself against him.  Her small hand was still cupped between his legs, and he kept having to remind himself to breathe as his head swam.  He had not expected this, would have never confessed he wanted this, but it was impossible to deny the effect she had on him.  The hand betwixt her legs rose between them, and she pressed her slick fingers into her mouth, sucking her arousal from them as she tilted her gaze up at him, a silent plea for his hands, his touch.  A rush of heat rippled through him at the sight of her, licking her fingers clean of her slick, and he slid a hand against her face, palm on her cheek and thumb brushing her moistened lips.  

 

Her fingers fell away from her mouth, and she flicked her tongue at his thumb then drew it into her mouth to suckle at it.   The sensation painted images in his mind of Bethany on her knees, mouth stretched wide as she struggled to take the entire length of his cock between her lips.  He shuddered and stroked his broad thumb over her tongue, pressing further in as he kept a keen eye on both of hers.  Her dark cheeks were flushed crimson, and the coloring crawled down her neck and disappeared beneath the pale linen that clung to her breasts.  There was no mistaking the wanton lust in her eyes, the quick rise and fall of her chest.  The darkness in her eyes called to him, like a siren on a distant shore beckons sailors.  

 

His calloused thumb brushed her ear as his fingers threaded back into her hair, and he had to wonder, was he simply a substitute?  Before he thought better of it, he reminded her, “I'm not him, Bethany.”  The change that came over her face was stark, widening her eyes as her lips fell open as if to say something, but she only gave a small, frail noise as she yanked her hands back.  Almost as an afterthought, she slapped him across the face before she rolled over and huddled in on herself.  It took him a moment to fully register what had happened, and once he did, his jaw set with the grinding of his teeth.  He took several long moments to rein in the flare of anger that had washed over him, to settle the irrational heat of a drunk temper.  

 

Gradually, he shifted over to her until he was leaning against her back, his weight supported on an elbow.  She refused to look at him, to acknowledge him at all, so he lowered his face into her hair and took a deep breath of her.  She smelled of soap and wood smoke and something just beneath that was distinctly Bethany.  “I'm sorry,” he whispered into her hair, repeating the words as he drew his palm up her bare arm before pulling her hair back to bare her neck.  “Forgive me, Bethy,” he said in a hush against her ear, the side of her neck, as he curled an arm around her waist.  It took only an instant for the taut line of her body to soften, the anger bleeding out of her as quickly as it had risen.

 

His breath was trembling across his lips with the first kiss he pressed to her neck, and she tasted as he had always imagined she would.  A complex flavor of soap and salt, powdery and fragrant with the lavender water she used in her hair.  “I know you're not him, Garrett,” she said into the darkness, lacing her fingers into his as she arched her body against him.  The sensation prompted him to set his teeth against her neck, lightly in a gentle scrape that he chased with his tongue.  Behind her lips, there was a muted hum of pleasure as she pulled his hand from her waist and over her stomach, coaxing his hand to grip her breast. “I...always wanted you, but Carver was jealous.  He wouldn't allow it,” her voice had dwindled to a whisper on the last of her words, and she ground her backside against his erection.

 

An unreasonable flare of anger tightened his hand on the mound of her breast, and he handled her more roughly than he’d intended.   _ Carver wouldn’t allow it _ .  It was absurd to think of, even more absurd to be angry about:  two brothers torn over the affection and desire of their sister.  And yet, his grip on her was possessive, and his reaction to her words made his head spin.  Blunt fingers bit through the fabric of her shift and into her breast as he pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.   A muffled moan was barely audible from behind her lips, and he scuffed his bearded face into the hollow of her shoulder as he gripped her.  The low growl he pressed into her skin said what he couldn’t put into words as he lifted his hips into the curve of her ass.  

 

She was mewling when she clutched at his hand, squeezing his fingers deeper into her flesh as she squirmed beneath his touch.  “Do you want me?” she asked breathlessly, and there was a sort of vulnerability in her words, in the frailty of her tone.  He abruptly released her breast as his hand coasted upward, her hand still laid against the back of his, and he wrapped his fingers gently around her delicate throat.  He heard himself whisper  _ Yes _ against her skin, and he felt her swallow beneath his palm.  For what had seemed so erring a choice just moments earlier, he was surprised at the haste of his answer and the curious lack of concern he felt over it now.  He stroked his thumb over her pulse as he rocked against her shallowly as he began to tighten his grip.  

 

“Then I'm yours,” she managed to whisper hoarsely as she braced back against the nudging of his hips.   _ I’m yours _ .  She was  _ his _ .  He let that thought settle on him as he rubbed himself against her ass, and each time he rolled the words over in his mind, it sent a pulse straight to his cock.  “Pull up your shift, Bethy.  I want to feel you,” he murmured against her cheek before withdrawing his hand.  She leaned away from him long enough to pull the thin fabric from her body, and he took the time to do the same, divesting himself of his shirt and wriggling his pants down his legs.  By the time he kicked them off, she was waiting, her back still turned to him but now as naked as the day she was born.  Stretching out behind her, his appreciation for the curved line she cut was a rumble behind his lips, and he couldn’t resist touching each rise and fall of her.

 

Rough fingers slid along her calf and over her thigh, and he noted with a measure of satisfaction that she was trembling by the time his grip settled on her hip.  A firm tug leaned her back against him and settled his length in the cleft of her ass.  They shared a breathless moan as his hand slid around to cup her mound.  His name was a whisper on her lips when he stroked a finger along the slit, teasing her lower lips as he pressed a kiss to the curve of her shoulder.  Perhaps it was the alcohol or the anger, the way she begged or how she surrendered, but any apprehension he’d had when she first kissed him was gone now, burned away by the heat between them.  He dipped his middle finger into her folds and found her surprisingly wet; just the briefest thought of how it would feel when he slid into her sopping cunt pulled a groan from his lips.

 

“Tell me, little sister,” he began as he traced his lips up her shoulder, lingering against her ear as his fingertip stroked lazily at her clit, “Tell me how you like to be fucked.”  A tremor shook her body against his, and she pressed her fingers over her mouth to hold back her moan.  “You’re already so wet for me.  Is this where you want me?”  He punctuated the question by sinking a finger into her and rocking into her ass at the same time.  The sound she made was low, but desperate.  “Or perhaps you would rather I use this to slick myself up, bend you over, and take your ass,” he rumbled against her ear as he pumped his finger in and out of her.  She was all but writhing, each breath chased by a whimper.  “Tell me, Bethany,” he commanded as the pitch of his voice dropped, and his teeth caught her ear lobe.  “Anywhere...everywhere...hard,” she gasped out as she reached behind her to clutch at his hip.  

 

“Garrett,  _ please _ ,” she whined as she pulled him toward her.  It was his turn to tremble, her voice raking through him like nails on slate.  He was already leaking, the cleft of her ass slick with him as he rocked against her, and he pulled his finger free of her warmth and lifted his hand to her mouth.  Presenting her with a finger drenched in her arousal, there was no hesitation as she took the digit into her mouth and sucked it clean.  He watched her with rapt attention as her tongue circled the finger before she pulled off and licked her lips.  “Maker, you’re such a good girl, Bethy,” he hushed out as he smoothed his palm over the curve of her ass and down the back of her thigh.  He withdrew his hand long enough to spit in his palm and give himself a few tugs before he leaned back and pressed his cock between her thighs.  

 

A hand on her hip held her in place as he unhurriedly thrust between her legs, savoring the sight of his length disappearing in her flesh again and again.  Before the sensation became too much, he slid a hand between them and worked his fingers into the crevice between her thighs.  “Open,” he requested with a single word and the nudge of his fingers, and she obediently parted her legs for him.  Stretching out an arm beneath her head, he palmed his length with the other hand before he adjusted himself and angled his body press his head against the seam of her cunt.  She fitfully squirmed, trying to back up onto him, but a growled  _ nuh-uh _ and his hand lifting her leg at the inside of her knee drew her fidgeting into tensed stillness and her voice into soft, mewling cries.  

 

It took only a shallow rock to part her lips and tease the tip of his length between her folds, and the next roll of his hips breached her opening.  The moan that crawled from her lips was low and loud and cut short as the arm beneath her head bent to slap his hand over her mouth.  He groaned out his restraint through his nose, his breathing deep and heavy as he lifted his hips again, sinking further into her.  Behind his hand, her voice was muffled and she clutched at his wrist and fingers as if she might try to pry them off.  It only made his grip tighter, and with a final, forceful pump of his hips, he seated himself fully inside her.  The pitch of her moan vibrated against his hand, and he had to bury his own voice against the back of her shoulder as he sat still within her.  

 

“You’re so tight, Bethy,” he uttered in a strangled voice, his spine tingling with the sensation of her body gripping his length, her heat.  Under his hands, she struggled to buck back into him, but he held her tight.  He didn’t want to waste this by rushing to his peak.  Hooking his arm under her knee and pulling her leg back over his, he began to rise and fall within her.  He started slow, the roll of his hips shallow, and he could feel her voice in his palm, every whimper, every moan, and as much as they had a need for discretion and secrecy, he needed to hear her.  “Quiet now,” he whispered just behind her ear as his hand slid from her mouth to curl his fingers around her throat.  She tilted her head back against his shoulder, eyes shifting toward him as she panted through each of his languid thrusts.  

 

“Ung... _ please _ ...harder,” she cried softly, and though it wasn’t loud enough to be heard outside of the room, he clenched his hand on her throat just to hear the air squeezed out of her words.  “Shhh,” he scolded as he snapped his hips into her, and the moan she wanted to give voice to caught beneath his fist and left her as a breathless squeak.  He could feel his pulse in his temples, hear it in his ears, and it throbbed in his cock as he buried it into his sister.  He wanted to be slow, he wanted to prolong this experience for as long as possible, but the taunting he’d directed at her was having an effect on him as well.  Not to mention the grip her sweet little quim had on him.  With every successive thrust, his rhythm sped, and before long, he was using the leverage afforded by his hand on her throat and the other beneath her leg to bend her back against him.

 

He loosened his grip on her throat enough to allow her to breathe, but kept pressure on the sides of her neck, felt each thrum of her pulse, as his quickened thrusts became bruising slams of his body into hers.  Her pleasure left her in strangled little noises that fell in time with the pumping of his hips, and he had become lost in the heat gathering in his belly, the tension building low in his body.  “Fuck,” he groaned out, slamming into her with a punishing pace as one of her hands fell from his wrist.  When the tone and length of her moans changed, he knew that hand was between her legs, plucking that little nub tucked within her folds.  The mental image of it chased a spark through his body, and he bit into the back of her shoulder to keep from calling her name.  Around them, the room was filled with hoarse panting and muffled whines, both his and hers, and it wasn’t long before he felt her walls quiver on his length and begin to grip him with a strangling hold.  

 

Tiny motes of color danced behind his eyes as she came undone around him, spasming on his cock and tearing from him a string of swearing that began and ended with  _ Oh, fuck! _  She was gasping his name when his sac drew tight, and his hand dropped from her throat to grip the front of her shoulder.  He pulled her hard against his chest as the first pulse of his climax ripped through him, unleashing a wave of pressure that compelled his hips forward with an erratic and brutal strength.  The whole world went white as he continued to bury himself in his sister’s cunt, thrust after thrust spilling his seed deep within her.  Even after he was spent, he continued to rock into her, nursing the aftershocks of his orgasm as he clung to her and panted into her hair.  Eventually, her leg fell from his grip, and he drew his hand up her body, palming her breast as his softened cock slipped out of her.  He held her, tighter than he ever had, and her hand had come to rest on his thigh as he listened to their heavy breathing mingling on the air in the tiny room they shared.


End file.
